text_original: Grief is the cold air of the soul ! It chills and blights the flowers, In urgent gusts it sways and smites, Freezing the source of all delights ; But roots grow strong by dint of storm, And, when the spring awakes, they form The growth of happier hours.
text_transcription: GRIEF IS THE COLD AIR OF THE SOUL IT CHILLS AND BLIGHTS THE FLOWERS IN URGENT GUSTS IT SWAYS AND SMITES FREEZING THE SOURCE OF ALL DELIGHTS BUT ROOTS GROW STRONG BY DINT OF STORM AND WHEN THE SPRING AWAKES THEY FORM THE GROWTH OF HAPPIER HOURS
phonemes: ɡɹˈiːf ɪz ðə kˈoʊld ˈɛɹ ʌvðə sˈoʊl ! ɪt tʃˈɪlz ænd blˈaɪts ðə flˈaʊɚz, ɪn ˈɜːdʒənt ɡˈʌsts ɪt swˈeɪz ænd smˈaɪts, fɹˈiːzɪŋ ðə sˈɔːɹs ʌv ˈɔːl dᵻlˈaɪts ; bˌʌt ɹˈuːts ɡɹˈoʊ stɹˈɔŋ baɪ dˈɪnt ʌv stˈɔːɹm, ænd, wˌɛn ðə spɹˈɪŋ ɐwˈeɪks, ðeɪ fˈɔːɹm ðə ɡɹˈoʊθ ʌv hˈæpɪɚɹ ˈaʊɚz.