text_original: GRAY NOVEMBER I Dull, dimly gleaming, The dawn looks downward Where, flowing townward, The river, steaming With mist, is hidden: Each bush, that huddles Beside the road,  the rain has pooled with puddles,   Seems, in the fog, a hag or thing hag ridden.
text_transcription: GRAY NOVEMBER ONE DULL DIMLY GLEAMING THE DAWN LOOKS DOWNWARD WHERE FLOWING TOWNWARD THE RIVER STEAMING WITH MIST IS HIDDEN EACH BUSH THAT HUDDLES BESIDE THE ROAD THE RAIN HAS POOLED WITH PUDDLES SEEMS IN THE FOG A HAG OR THING HAG RIDDEN
phonemes: ɡɹˈeɪ noʊvˈɛmbɚɹ aɪ dˈʌl, dˈɪmli ɡlˈiːmɪŋ, ðə dˈɔːn lˈʊks dˈaʊnwɚd wˈɛɹ, flˈoʊɪŋ tˈaʊnwɚd, ðə ɹˈɪvɚ, stˈiːmɪŋ wɪð mˈɪst, ɪz hˈɪdən: ˈiːtʃ bˈʊʃ, ðæt hˈʌdəlz bᵻsˌaɪd ðə ɹˈoʊd,  ðə ɹˈeɪn hɐz pˈuːld wɪð pˈʌdəlz,   sˈiːmz, ɪnðə fˈɑːɡ, ɐ hˈæɡ ɔːɹ θˈɪŋ hˈæɡ ɹˈɪdən.