text_original: The people's heart is like a harp for years Hung where some petrifying torrent rains Its slow incrusting spray: the stiffened chords Faint and more faint make answer to the tears That drip upon them: idle are all words; Only a silver plectrum wakes the tone Deep buried 'neath that ever thickening stone.
text_transcription: THE PEOPLE'S HEART IS LIKE A HARP FOR YEARS HUNG WITH SOME PETRIFYING TORRENT REIGNS ITS LOW AND CRUSTING SPRAY THE STIFFENED CHORDS FAINT AND MORE FAINT MAKE ANSWER TO THE TEARS THAT DRIP UPON THEM IDLE ARE ALL WORDS ONLY A SILVER PLACTRUM WAKES THE TONE DEEP BURIED NEATH THAT EVER THICKENING STONE
phonemes: ðə pˈiːpəlz hˈɑːɹt ɪz lˈaɪk ɐ hˈɑːɹp fɔːɹ jˈɪɹz hˈʌŋ wˌɛɹ sˌʌm pˈɛtɹᵻfˌaɪɪŋ tˈɔɹənt ɹˈeɪnz ɪts slˈoʊ ɪŋkɹˈʌstɪŋ spɹˈeɪ: ðə stˈɪfənd kˈɔːɹdz fˈeɪnt ænd mˈɔːɹ fˈeɪnt mˌeɪk ˈænsɚ tə ðə tˈɪɹz ðæt dɹˈɪp əpˌɑːn ðˌɛm: ˈaɪdəl ɑːɹ ˈɔːl wˈɜːdz; ˈoʊnli ɐ sˈɪlvɚ plˈɛktɹəm wˈeɪks ðə tˈoʊn dˈiːp bˈɛɹid nˈiːθ ðæt ˈɛvɚ θˈɪkənɪŋ stˈoʊn.