text_original: Or stranger and wilder fancy  it seems As I hear their wind torn cry, No birds fly there through the sun's last gleams, But the wraiths of hopes  the ghosts of dreams That the old sea gods saw die.
text_transcription: OR STRANGER AND WILDER FANCY IT SEEMS AS I HEAR THEIR WIND TORN CRY NO BIRDS FLY THERE THROUGH THE SUN'S LAST GLEAMS BUT THE WRAITHS OF HOPES THE GHOSTS OF DREAMS THAT THE OLD SEA GODS SAW DIE
phonemes: ɔːɹ stɹˈeɪndʒɚ ænd wˈaɪldɚ fˈænsi ɪt sˈiːmz æz aɪ hˈɪɹ ðɛɹ wˈɪnd tˈɔːɹn kɹˈaɪ, nˈoʊ bˈɜːdz flˈaɪ ðɛɹ θɹuː ðə sˈʌnz lˈæst ɡlˈiːmz, bˌʌt ðə ɹˈeɪθs ʌv hˈoʊps ðə ɡˈoʊsts ʌv dɹˈiːmz ðætðɪ ˈoʊld sˈiː ɡˈɑːdz sˈɔː dˈaɪ.