text_original: But they are few, and all romance has flown, And men can prophesy about the sun, And lecture on his arrows—how, alone, Through a waste void the soulless atoms run, How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled, And that no more 'mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.
text_transcription: BUT THEY ARE FEW AND ALL ROMANCE HAS FLOWN AND MEN CAN PROPHESY ABOUT THE SUN AND LECTURE ON HIS ARROWS HOW ALONE THROUGH A WASTE VOID THE SOULLESS ATOMS RUN HOW FROM EACH TREE ITS WEEPING NYMPH HAS FLED AND THAT NO MORE MID ENGLISH REEDS A NEIARD SHOWS HER HEAD
phonemes: bˌʌt ðeɪ ɑːɹ fjˈuː, ænd ˈɔːl ɹoʊmˈæns hɐz flˈoʊn, ænd mˈɛn kæn pɹˈɑːfəsi ɐbˌaʊt ðə sˈʌn, ænd lˈɛktʃɚɹ ˌɔn hɪz ˈæɹoʊz—hˈaʊ, ɐlˈoʊn, θɹuː ɐ wˈeɪst vˈɔɪd ðə sˈoʊlləs ˈæɾəmz ɹˈʌn, hˌaʊ fɹʌm ˈiːtʃ tɹˈiː ɪts wˈiːpɪŋ nˈɪmf hɐz flˈɛd, ænd ðæt nˈoʊmˌɔːɹ mˈɪd ˈɪŋɡlɪʃ ɹˈiːdz ɐ nˈeɪæd ʃˈoʊz hɜː hˈɛd.