text_original: Where down the glen, across the shallow ford, Stretches the open aisle from scene to scene, By halted horses silently we lean, Gazing enchanted from our steeper sward. How yon low loving skies of April hoard An hundred pinnacles, and how with sheen Of spike and ball her languid clouds between, Grey Oxford grandly rises riverward!
text_transcription: WHERE DOWN THE GLEN ACROSS THE SHALLOW FORD STRETCHES THE OPEN AISLE FROM SCENE TO SCENE BY HALTED HORSES SILENTLY WE LEAN GAZING ENCHANTED FROM OUR STEEPER SWARD HOW YON LOW LOVING SKIES OF APRIL HOARD AN HUNDRED PINNACLES AND HOW IS SHEEN OF SPIKE AND BALL HER LANGUID CLOUDS BETWEEN GRAY OXFORD GRANDLY RISES RIVER WOOD
phonemes: wˌɛɹ dˌaʊn ðə ɡlˈɛn, əkɹˌɑːs ðə ʃˈæloʊ fˈɔːɹd, stɹˈɛtʃᵻz ðɪ ˈoʊpən ˈaɪəl fɹʌm sˈiːn tə sˈiːn, baɪ hˈɔltᵻd hˈɔːɹsᵻz sˈaɪləntli wiː lˈiːn, ɡˈeɪzɪŋ ɛntʃˈæntᵻd fɹʌm ˌaʊɚ stˈiːpɚ swˈɔːɹd. hˌaʊ jˈɑːn lˈoʊ lˈʌvɪŋ skˈaɪz ʌv ˈeɪpɹəl hˈɔːɹd æn hˈʌndɹɪd pˈɪnəkəlz, ænd hˌaʊ wɪð ʃˈiːn ʌv spˈaɪk ænd bˈɔːl hɜː lˈæŋɡwɪd klˈaʊdz bᵻtwˈiːn, ɡɹˈeɪ ˈɑːksfɚd ɡɹˈændli ɹˈaɪzᵻz ɹˈɪvɚwɚd!