text_original: It is a mere wild rosebud, Quite sallow now, and dry, Yet there 's something wondrous in it,   Some gleams of days gone by,   Dear sights and sounds that are to me The very moons of memory, And stir my heart's blood far below Its short lived waves of joy and woe.
text_transcription: IT IS A MERE WILD ROSEBUD QUITE SALLOW NOW AND DRY YET THERE'S SOMETHING WONDROUS IN IT SOME GLEAMS OF DAYS GONE BY THE SIGHTS AND SOUNDS THAT ARE TO ME THE VERY MOONS OF MEMORY AND STIR MY HEART'S BLOOD FAR BELOW ITS SHORT LIVED WAVES OF JOY AND WOE
phonemes: ɪɾ ɪz ɐ mˈɪɹ wˈaɪld ɹˈoʊzbʌd, kwˈaɪt sˈæloʊ nˈaʊ, ænd dɹˈaɪ, jˈɛt ðɛɹ ˈɛs sˈʌmθɪŋ wˈʌndɹəs ɪn ɪt,   sˌʌm ɡlˈiːmz ʌv dˈeɪz ɡɔn bˈaɪ,   dˈɪɹ sˈaɪts ænd sˈaʊndz ðæt ɑːɹ tə mˌiː ðə vˈɛɹi mˈuːnz ʌv mˈɛmɚɹi, ænd stˈɜː maɪ hˈɑːɹts blˈʌd fˈɑːɹ bᵻlˌoʊ ɪts ʃˈɔːɹt lˈɪvd wˈeɪvz ʌv dʒˈɔɪ ænd wˈoʊ.