text_original: While if our dear and living dead, With soft, still smiles and noiseless tread, Should come, some day, to the old place, There would not be a thought of dread In their first rapture of embrace ! Oh, strangely blended joy and pain ! Death turned to naught, and life made vain, Love's shade and substance still at strife, Who shall decide between the twain, Or which is death, and which is life
text_transcription: WHILE IF OUR DEAR AND LIVING DEAD WITH SOFT STILL SMILES AND NOISELESS TREAD SHOULD COME SOME DAY TO THE OLD PLACE THERE WOULD NOT BE A THOUGHT OF DREAD IN THEIR FIRST RAPTURE OF EMBRACE O STRANGELY BLENDED JOY AND PAIN DEATH TURNED TO NAUGHT AND LIFE MADE VAIN LOVE'S SHADE AND SUBSTANCE STILL AT STRIFE WHO SHALL DECIDE BETWEEN THE TWAIN OR WHICH IS DEATH AND WHICH IS LIFE
phonemes: wˌaɪl ɪf ˌaʊɚ dˈɪɹ ænd lˈɪvɪŋ dˈɛd, wɪð sˈɔft, stˈɪl smˈaɪlz ænd nˈɔɪzləs tɹˈɛd, ʃˌʊd kˈʌm, sˌʌm dˈeɪ, tə ðɪ ˈoʊld plˈeɪs, ðɛɹ wʊd nˌɑːt biː ɐ θˈɔːt ʌv dɹˈɛd ɪn ðɛɹ fˈɜːst ɹˈæptʃɚɹ ʌv ɛmbɹˈeɪs ! ˈoʊ, stɹˈeɪndʒli blˈɛndᵻd dʒˈɔɪ ænd pˈeɪn ! dˈɛθ tˈɜːnd tə nˈɔːt, ænd lˈaɪf mˌeɪd vˈeɪn, lˈʌvz ʃˈeɪd ænd sˈʌbstəns stˈɪl æt stɹˈaɪf, hˌuː ʃˌæl dᵻsˈaɪd bᵻtwˌiːn ðə twˈeɪn, ɔːɹ wˌɪtʃ ɪz dˈɛθ, ænd wˌɪtʃ ɪz lˈaɪf