text_original: Thither he fared, fresh from the sea of sleep, And all the balmy land was blossomed deep. 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.
text_transcription: THITHER HE FARED FRESH FROM THE SEA OF SLEEP AND ALL THE BALMY LAND WAS BLOSSOMED DEEP 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
phonemes: ðˈɪðɚ hiː fˈɛɹd, fɹˈɛʃ fɹʌmðə sˈiː ʌv slˈiːp, ænd ˈɔːl ðə bˈɑːmi lˈænd wʌz blˈɔsəmd dˈiːp. 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.