text_original: Mist on the window and mist on the sea (Oh, but the mist is gray), And the weird, tall shape of a spectral mast Gleams out of the fog like a ghost of my past, And the old hope stirs in me   The old, old hope that warred with doubt, While the years with the tides surged in and out.
text_transcription: MIST ON THE WINDOW AND MIST ON THE SEA OH BUT THE MIST IS GREY AND THE WEIR TALL SHAPE OF A SPECTRAL MAST GLEAMS OUT OF THE FOG LIKE A GHOST OF MY PAST AND THE OLD HOPE STIRS IN ME THE OLD OLD HOPE THAT WARRED WITH DOUBT WHILE THE YEARS WITH THE TIDES SURGED IN AND OUT
phonemes: mˈɪst ɔnðə wˈɪndoʊ ænd mˈɪst ɔnðə sˈiː (ˈoʊ, bˌʌt ðə mˈɪst ɪz ɡɹˈeɪ), ænd ðə wˈɪɹd, tˈɔːl ʃˈeɪp əvə spˈɛktɹəl mˈæst ɡlˈiːmz ˌaʊɾəv ðə fˈɑːɡ lˈaɪk ɐ ɡˈoʊst ʌv maɪ pˈæst, ænd ðɪ ˈoʊld hˈoʊp stˈɜːz ɪn mˌiː ðɪ ˈoʊld, ˈoʊld hˈoʊp ðæt wˈɔːɹd wɪð dˈaʊt, wˌaɪl ðə jˈɪɹz wɪððə tˈaɪdz sˈɜːdʒd ɪn ænd ˈaʊt.