text_original: What tho my people perish soon*? Awhile the dews we crush Where nights of summer mould the moon And laughters wake the thrush.
text_transcription: WHAT THOUGH MY PEOPLE PERISH SOON A WHILE THE DEWS WE CRUSH WHEN NIGHTS OF SUMMER MOULD THE MOON AND LAUGHTERS WAKE A THRUSH
phonemes: wˌʌt ðˈoʊ maɪ pˈiːpəl pˈɛɹɪʃ sˈuːn ˈæstɚɹˌɪsk? ɐwˈaɪl ðə dˈuːz wiː kɹˈʌʃ wˌɛɹ nˈaɪts ʌv sˈʌmɚ mˈoʊld ðə mˈuːn ænd lˈæftɚz wˈeɪk ðə θɹˈʌʃ.