text_original: With a mist of green on the trees   And a scent of the warm brown broken earth On every wandering breeze; What, though thou be changeful, Though thy gold turns to grey again, There's a robin out yonder singing, Singing in the rain.
text_transcription: WITH A MIST OF GREEN ON THE TREES AND THE SCENT OF THE WARM BROWN BROKEN EARTH ON EVERY WANDERING BREEZE WHAT THOUGH THOU BE CHANGEFUL THOUGH THY GOLD TURNS TO GREY AGAIN THERE'S A ROBIN OUT YONDER SINGING SINGING IN THE RAIN
phonemes: wɪð ɐ mˈɪst ʌv ɡɹˈiːn ɔnðə tɹˈiːz ænd ɐ sˈɛnt ʌvðə wˈɔːɹm bɹˈaʊn bɹˈoʊkən ˈɜːθ ˌɔn ˈɛvɹi wˈɔndɚɹɪŋ bɹˈiːz; wˌʌt, ðˌoʊ ðˈaʊ biː tʃˈeɪndʒfəl, ðˌoʊ ðˌaɪ ɡˈoʊld tˈɜːnz tə ɡɹˈeɪ ɐɡˈɛn, ðɛɹz ɐ ɹˈɑːbɪn ˈaʊt jˈɑːndɚ sˈɪŋɪŋ, sˈɪŋɪŋ ɪnðə ɹˈeɪn.