text_original: The sky line's crimson harbors seem to hold. At dusk, their prows of gold. Now, ere the stars come out along the wind, The veering sea birds find The refuge that they crave 71 AN ALrjR OF THE WES'T On cliffs above the weedy mouth Of some reverberant cave In which the ocean's monstrous chuckle wakes.
text_transcription: THE SKY LINE'S CRIMSON HARBOURS SEEM TO HOLD AT DUSK THEIR PROWS OF GOLD NOW ERE THE STARS COME OUT ALONG THE WIND THE VEERING SEA BIRDS FIND THE REFUGE THAT THEY CRAVE ON CLIFFS ABOVE THE WEEDY MOUTH OF SOME REVERBERANT CAVE IN WHICH THE OCEAN'S MONSTROUS CHUCKLE WAKES
phonemes: ðə skˈaɪ lˈaɪnz kɹˈɪmsən hˈɑːɹbɚz sˈiːm tə hˈoʊld. æt dˈʌsk, ðɛɹ pɹˈaʊz ʌv ɡˈoʊld. nˈaʊ, ˈɛɹ ðə stˈɑːɹz kˈʌm ˈaʊt ɐlˈɔŋ ðə wˈɪnd, ðə vˈɪɹɪŋ sˈiː bˈɜːdz fˈaɪnd ðə ɹˈɛfjuːdʒ ðæt ðeɪ kɹˈeɪv sˈɛvənti wˈʌn ɐn ɐ ˌɛlˌɑːɹdʒˈeɪ ˈɑːɹ ʌvðə wˈɛst ˌɔn klˈɪfs əbˌʌv ðə wˈiːdi mˈaʊθ ʌv sˌʌm ɹᵻvˈɜːbɚɹənt kˈeɪv ɪnwˌɪtʃ ðɪ ˈoʊʃənz mˈɔnstɹəs tʃˈʌkəl wˈeɪks.