text_original: I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp Thrilling with godhood; like a lover I sprang the proffered life to clasp;   The beaker fell; the luck was over. The Earth has drunk the vintage up; What boots it patch the goblet's splinters? Can Summer fill the icy cup, Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's?
text_transcription: I SAW THE BRIMMED BOWL IN HER GRASP THRILLING WITH GODHOOD LIKE A LOVER I SPRANG THE PROFFERED LIFE TO CLASP THE BEAKER FELL THE LUCK WAS OVER THE EARTH HAS DRUNK THE VINTAGE UP WHAT BOOTS IT PATCH THE GOBLET SPLINTERS CAN SUMMER FILL THE ICY CUP WHOSE TREACHEROUS CRYSTAL IS BUT WINTER'S
phonemes: aɪ sˈɔː ðə bɹˈɪmd bˈoʊl ɪn hɜː ɡɹˈæsp θɹˈɪlɪŋ wɪð ɡˈɑːdhʊd; lˈaɪk ɐ lˈʌvɚɹ aɪ spɹˈæŋ ðə pɹˈɑːfɚd lˈaɪf tə klˈæsp;   ðə bˈiːkɚ fˈɛl; ðə lˈʌk wʌz ˈoʊvɚ. ðɪ ˈɜːθ hɐz dɹˈʌŋk ðə vˈɪntɪdʒ ˈʌp; wˌʌt bˈuːts ɪt pˈætʃ ðə ɡˈɑːbləts splˈɪntɚz? kæn sˈʌmɚ fˈɪl ðɪ ˈaɪsi kˈʌp, hˌuːz tɹˈɛtʃɚɹəs kɹˈɪstəl ɪz bˌʌt wˈɪntɚz?