text_original: Nor could one wander save on helpless flow'rs, Where Summer made a garland of the hours And bound it on the dew dipt brow of Mom, Bent low above the meadow's blossom bourn. But past all peace of bowers rang the call And invocation of the billows' fall, And, clean from kingdoms of the sapphire vast. DUJNDON The winds of ocean smote his brow at last.
text_transcription: NOR COULD ONE WANDER SAVE ON HELPLESS FLOWERS WHERE SUMMER MADE THE GARLAND OF THE HOURS AND BOUNDED ON THE DEW DIPPED BROW OF MORN BENT LOW ABOVE THE MEADOWS BLOSSOM BORN BUT PAST ALL PEACE OF BOWERS RANG THE CALL AND INVOCATION OF THE BILLOWS FALL AND CLEAN FROM KINGDOMS OF THE SATIRE VAST THE WINDS OF OCEAN SMOTE HIS BROW AT LAST
phonemes: nˈɔːɹ kʊd wˈʌn wˈɔndɚ sˈeɪv ˌɔn hˈɛlpləs flˈoʊrz, wˌɛɹ sˈʌmɚ mˌeɪd ɐ ɡˈɑːɹlənd ʌvðɪ ˈaʊɚz ænd bˈaʊnd ɪɾ ɔnðə dˈuː dˈɪpt bɹˈaʊ ʌv mˈɑːm, bˈɛnt lˈoʊ əbˌʌv ðə mˈɛdoʊz blˈɔsəm bˈɔːɹn. bˌʌt pˈæst ˈɔːl pˈiːs ʌv bˈaʊɚz ɹˈæŋ ðə kˈɔːl ænd ɪnvoʊkˈeɪʃən ʌvðə bˈɪloʊz fˈɔːl, ænd, klˈiːn fɹʌm kˈɪŋdəmz ʌvðə sˈæfaɪɚ vˈæst. dˈʌdʒndən ðə wˈɪndz ʌv ˈoʊʃən smˈoʊt hɪz bɹˈaʊ æt lˈæst.