text_original: Moonlight It will not hurt me when I am old, A running tide where moonlight burned Will not sting me like silver snakes; The years will make me sad and cold, It is the happy heart that breaks. The heart asks more than life can give, When that is learned, then all is learned; The waves break fold on jewelled fold, But beauty itself is fugitive, It will not hurt me when I am old.
text_transcription: MOONLIGHT IT WILL NOT HURT ME WHEN I AM OLD A RUNNING TIDE WHERE MOONLIGHT BURNED WILL NOT STING ME LIKE SILVER SNAKES THE YEARS WILL MAKE ME SAD AND COLD IT IS THE HAPPY HEART THAT BREAKS THE HEART ASKS MORE THAN LIFE CAN GIVE WHEN THAT IS LEARNED THEN ALL IS LEARNED THE WAVES BREAK FOLD ON JEWELLED FOLD BUT BEAUTY ITSELF IS FUGITIVE IT WILL NOT HURT ME WHEN I AM OLD
phonemes: mˈuːnlaɪt ɪt wɪl nˌɑːt hˈɜːt mˌiː wɛn aɪɐm ˈoʊld, ɐ ɹˈʌnɪŋ tˈaɪd wˌɛɹ mˈuːnlaɪt bˈɜːnd wɪl nˌɑːt stˈɪŋ mˌiː lˈaɪk sˈɪlvɚ snˈeɪks; ðə jˈɪɹz wɪl mˌeɪk mˌiː sˈæd ænd kˈoʊld, ɪɾ ɪz ðə hˈæpi hˈɑːɹt ðæt bɹˈeɪks. ðə hˈɑːɹt ˈæsks mˈɔːɹ ðɐn lˈaɪf kæn ɡˈɪv, wˌɛn ðæt ɪz lˈɜːnd, ðˈɛn ˈɔːl ɪz lˈɜːnd; ðə wˈeɪvz bɹˈeɪk fˈoʊld ˌɔn dʒˈuːəld fˈoʊld, bˌʌt bjˈuːɾi ɪtsˈɛlf ɪz fjˈuːdʒᵻtˌɪv, ɪt wɪl nˌɑːt hˈɜːt mˌiː wɛn aɪɐm ˈoʊld.