text_original: Yet there is something round thy lips That prophesies the coming doom, The soft, gray herald shadow ere the eclipse Notches the perfect disk with gloom; A something that would banish thee, And thine untamed pursuer be, From men and their unworthy fates, Though Florence had not shut her gates, And grief had loosed her clutch and let thee free. Ah!
text_transcription: YET THERE IS SOMETHING ROUND THY LIPS THAT PROPHECIES THE COMING DOOM THE SOFT GRAY HERALD SHADOW ERE THE ECLIPSE NOTCHES THE PERFECT DISC WITH GLOOM A SOMETHING THAT WOULD BANISH THEE AND THINE UNTAMED PURSUER BE FROM MEN AND THEIR UNWORTHY FATES THOUGH FLORENCE HAD NOT SHUT HER GATES AND GRIEF HAD LOOSED HER CLUTCH AND LET THEE FREE AH
phonemes: jˈɛt ðɛɹ ɪz sˈʌmθɪŋ ɹˈaʊnd ðˌaɪ lˈɪps ðæt pɹˈɑːfəsiz ðə kˈʌmɪŋ dˈuːm, ðə sˈɔft, ɡɹˈeɪ hˈɛɹəld ʃˈædoʊ ˈɛɹ ðɪ ɪklˈɪps nˈɑːtʃᵻz ðə pˈɜːfɛkt dˈɪsk wɪð ɡlˈuːm; ɐ sˈʌmθɪŋ ðæt wʊd bˈænɪʃ ðˈiː, ænd ðaɪn ʌntˈeɪmd pɚsˈuːɚ bˈiː, fɹʌm mˈɛn ænd ðɛɹ ʌnwˈɜːði fˈeɪts, ðˌoʊ flˈɔːɹəns hæd nˌɑːt ʃˈʌt hɜː ɡˈeɪts, ænd ɡɹˈiːf hæd lˈuːst hɜː klˈʌtʃ ænd lˈɛt ðiː fɹˈiː. ˈɑː!