text_original: So sweet and true the voices from thy spire, Which bless the day's betrothal unto night, That when they falter with the fading light, We well might think an angel touched his lyre.
text_transcription: SO SWEET AND TRUE THE VOICES FROM THY SPIRE WHICH BLESS THE DAY'S BETROTHAL UNTO NIGHT THAT WHEN THEY FALTER WITH THE FADING LIGHT WE WELL MIGHT THINK AN ANGEL TOUCHED HIS LYRE
phonemes: sˌoʊ swˈiːt ænd tɹˈuː ðə vˈɔɪsᵻz fɹʌm ðˌaɪ spˈaɪɚ, wˌɪtʃ blˈɛs ðə dˈeɪz bᵻtɹˈoʊðəl ˌʌntʊ nˈaɪt, ðæt wɛn ðeɪ fˈɔltɚ wɪððə fˈeɪdɪŋ lˈaɪt, wiː wˈɛl mˌaɪt θˈɪŋk ɐn ˈeɪndʒəl tˈʌtʃt hɪz lˈaɪɚ.