text_original: Flowers open only their lips in derision, Leaves are as fingers that point in scorn The shows we see are a vision; Spring is not verily born. Yet boughs turn supple and buds grow sappy, As though the sun were indeed the sun: And all our woods are happy With all their birds save one.
text_transcription: FLOWERS OPEN ONLY THEIR LIPS IN DERISION LEAVES ARE AS FINGERS THAT POINTED SCORN THE SHOWS WE SEE ARE A VISION SPRING IS NOT VERILY BORN YET BOUGHS TURN SUPPLE AND BUDS GROW SAPPY AS THOUGH THE SUN WERE INDEED THE SUN AND ALL OUR WOODS ARE HAPPY WITH ALL THEIR BIRDS SAVE ONE
phonemes: flˈaʊɚz ˈoʊpən ˈoʊnli ðɛɹ lˈɪps ɪn dᵻɹˈɪʒən, lˈiːvz ɑːɹ æz fˈɪŋɡɚz ðæt pˈɔɪnt ɪn skˈɔːɹn ðə ʃˈoʊz wiː sˈiː ɑːɹ ɐ vˈɪʒən; spɹˈɪŋ ɪz nˌɑːt vˈɛɹili bˈɔːɹn. jˈɛt bˈaʊz tˈɜːn sˈʌpəl ænd bˈʌdz ɡɹˈoʊ sˈæpi, æz ðˌoʊ ðə sˈʌn wɜːɹ ˌɪndˈiːd ðə sˈʌn: ænd ˈɔːl ˌaʊɚ wˈʊdz ɑːɹ hˈæpi wɪð ˈɔːl ðɛɹ bˈɜːdz sˈeɪv wˌʌn.