text_original: From scents and sounds it rises, sadly slow, This presence, that hath neither face nor form; That in the woods sits like demented woe, Whispering of wreck and storm.
text_transcription: FROM SENSE AND SOUNDS IT RISES SADLY SLOW THIS PRESENCE THAT HATH NEITHER FACE NOR FORM THAT IN THE WOODS SITS LIKE DEMENTED WOE WHISPERING OF WRECK AND STORM
phonemes: fɹʌm sˈɛnts ænd sˈaʊndz ɪt ɹˈaɪzᵻz, sˈædli slˈoʊ, ðɪs pɹˈɛzəns, ðæt hæθ nˈiːðɚ fˈeɪs nˈɔːɹ fˈɔːɹm; ðæt ɪnðə wˈʊdz sˈɪts lˈaɪk dᵻmˈɛntᵻd wˈoʊ, wˈɪspɚɹɪŋ ʌv ɹˈɛk ænd stˈɔːɹm.