text_original: Perchance the echoes of old songs Found here a resting place at last With drifting perfume that belongs To roses of the past. Or all the moonbeams that were lost On summer nights the world forgets May here be prisoned by the frost With souls of violets. The wind doth shepherd many things   And when the nights are long and cold, Who knows how strange a flock he brings All safely to the fold.
text_transcription: PERCHANCE THE ECHOES OF OLD SONGS FOUND HERE A RESTING PLACE AT LAST WITH DRIFTING PERFUME THAT BELONGS TO ROSES OF THE PAST ALL THE MOONBEAMS THAT WERE LOST ON SUMMER NIGHTS THE WORLD FORGETS MAY HERE BE PRISONED BY THE FROST WITH SOULS OF VIOLETS THE WIND DOES SHEPHERD MANY THINGS AND WHEN THE NIGHTS ARE LONG AND COLD WHO KNOWS HOW STRANGE A FLOCK HE BRINGS ALL SAFELY TO THE FOLD
phonemes: pɚtʃˈæns ðɪ ˈɛkoʊz ʌv ˈoʊld sˈɔŋz fˈaʊnd hˈɪɹ ɐ ɹˈɛstɪŋ plˈeɪs æt lˈæst wɪð dɹˈɪftɪŋ pˈɜːfjuːm ðæt bᵻlˈɔŋz tə ɹˈoʊzᵻz ʌvðə pˈæst. ɔːɹ ˈɔːl ðə mˈuːnbiːmz ðæt wɜː lˈɔst ˌɔn sˈʌmɚ nˈaɪts ðə wˈɜːld fɚɡˈɛts mˈeɪ hˈɪɹ biː pɹˈɪzənd baɪ ðə fɹˈɔst wɪð sˈoʊlz ʌv vˈaɪəlɪts. ðə wˈɪnd dʌθ ʃˈɛpɚd mˈɛni θˈɪŋz ænd wɛn ðə nˈaɪts ɑːɹ lˈɔŋ ænd kˈoʊld, hˌuː nˈoʊz hˌaʊ stɹˈeɪndʒ ɐ flˈɑːk hiː bɹˈɪŋz ˈɔːl sˈeɪfli tə ðə fˈoʊld.