text_original: A milder music held his lyre — A wistful strain, all human sweet. Between the ashes at our feet And stars that pass in alien fire. 129 PERSONAL POEMS His skies were sombre, but he lit His garden with a lamp of gold, Where tropic laughters left untold The sadness buried in his wit. Lonely, he harbored to the last A boyish spirit, large and droll; Tardy of flesh and swift of soul.
text_transcription: A MILDER MUSIC HELD HIS LYRE A WISTFUL STRAIN ALL HUMAN SWEET BETWEEN THE ASHES AT OUR FEET AND STARS THAT PASS IN ALIEN FIRE HIS SKIES WERE SOMBRE BUT HE LIT HIS GARDEN WITH A LAMP OF GOLD WHERE TROPIC LAUGHTERS LEFT UNTOLD THE SADNESS BURIED IN HIS WIT LONELY HE HARBOURED TO THE LAST A BOYISH SPIRIT LARGE AND DROLL TARDY OF FLESH AND SWIFT OF SOUL
phonemes: ɐ mˈaɪldɚ mjˈuːzɪk hˈɛld hɪz lˈaɪɚ — ɐ wˈɪstfəl stɹˈeɪn, ˈɔːl hjˈuːmən swˈiːt. bᵻtwˌiːn ðɪ ˈæʃᵻz æɾ ˌaʊɚ fˈiːt ænd stˈɑːɹz ðæt pˈæs ɪn ˈeɪliən fˈaɪɚ. wˈʌnhˈʌndɹɪd twˈɛnti nˈaɪn pˈɜːsənəl pˈoʊᵻmz hɪz skˈaɪz wɜː sˈɑːmbɚ, bˌʌt hiː lˈɪt hɪz ɡˈɑːɹdən wɪð ɐ lˈæmp ʌv ɡˈoʊld, wˌɛɹ tɹˈɑːpɪk lˈæftɚz lˈɛft ʌntˈoʊld ðə sˈædnəs bˈɛɹid ɪn hɪz wˈɪt. lˈoʊnli, hiː hˈɑːɹbɚd tə ðə lˈæst ɐ bˈɔɪɪʃ spˈɪɹɪt, lˈɑːɹdʒ ænd dɹˈoʊl; tˈɑːɹdi ʌv flˈɛʃ ænd swˈɪft ʌv sˈoʊl.