text_original: Wrought from the purples of the morn. 114 whii:e magic Where swings to foam the dusky sea, She waits with sapphires in her hand Whose light shall make thy spirit be Lost in a still, enchanted land.
text_transcription: WROUGHT FROM THE PURPLES OF THE MORN WITH SWINGS TO FOAM THE DUSKY SEA SHE WAITS WITH SAPPHIRES IN HER HAND WHOSE LIGHT SHALL MAKE THY SPIRIT BE LOST IN A STILL ENCHANTED LAND
phonemes: ɹˈɔːt fɹʌmðə pˈɜːpəlz ʌvðə mˈɔːɹn. wˈʌnhˈʌndɹɪd fˈɔːɹtiːn wˈɪaɪ:ˈiː mˈædʒɪk wˌɛɹ swˈɪŋz tə fˈoʊm ðə dˈʌski sˈiː, ʃiː wˈeɪts wɪð sˈæfaɪɚz ɪn hɜː hˈænd hˌuːz lˈaɪt ʃˌæl mˌeɪk ðˌaɪ spˈɪɹɪt biː lˈɔst ɪn ɐ stˈɪl, ɛntʃˈæntᵻd lˈænd.