text_original: The distant moorland where the tribesmen bled To win their wandering prince a royal home, Now wraps a deeper purple on their bed, While he sleeps cold below St. Peter's dome. The waves turn opal in the waning light, The rocks exchange for grey their rose red bloom, The finite sinks into the infinite, And sea and sky are wedded in the gloom.
text_transcription: THE DISTANT MOORLAND WHERE THE TRIBESMEN BLED TO WIN THEIR WANDERING PRINCE A ROYAL HOME NOW WRAPS A DEEPER PURPLE ON THEIR BED WHILE HE SLEEPS COLD BELOW SAINT PETER'S DOME THE WAVES TURN OPAL IN THE WANING LIGHT THE ROCKS EXCHANGE FOR GREY THEIR ROSE RED BLOOM THE FINITE SINKS INTO THE INFINITE AND SEA AND SKY ARE WEDDED IN THE GLOOM
phonemes: ðə dˈɪstənt mˈʊɹlənd wˌɛɹ ðə tɹˈaɪbsmɛn blˈɛd tə wˈɪn ðɛɹ wˈɔndɚɹɪŋ pɹˈɪns ɐ ɹˈɔɪəl hˈoʊm, nˈaʊ ɹˈæps ɐ dˈiːpɚ pˈɜːpəl ˌɔn ðɛɹ bˈɛd, wˌaɪl hiː slˈiːps kˈoʊld bᵻlˈoʊ sənt. pˈiːɾɚz dˈoʊm. ðə wˈeɪvz tˈɜːn ˈoʊpəl ɪnðə wˈeɪnɪŋ lˈaɪt, ðə ɹˈɑːks ɛkstʃˈeɪndʒ fɔːɹ ɡɹˈeɪ ðɛɹ ɹˈoʊz ɹˈɛd blˈuːm, ðə fˈaɪnaɪt sˈɪŋks ˌɪntʊ ðɪ ˈɪnfɪnət, ænd sˈiː ænd skˈaɪ ɑːɹ wˈɛdᵻd ɪnðə ɡlˈuːm.