text_original: But put your ear to the ground, And a stir of dim heard sound Will reach it, a murmer of slow revolt, like the hiss of a rising tide. No rootlet faint and chill But shares the quivering thrill ; And mutinous whispers come and go where the thralls of the winter hide.
text_transcription: BUT PUT YOUR EAR TO THE GROUND AND THE STIR OF DIM HEARD SOUND WILL REACH IT A MURMUR OF SLOW REVOLT LIKE THE HISS OF A RISING TIDE NO ROOTLERT FAINT AND CHILL BUT SHARES THE QUIVERING THRILL AND MUTINOUS WHISPERS COME AND GO WHERE THE THRALLS OF THE WINTER HIDE
phonemes: bˌʌt pˌʊt jʊɹ ˈɪɹ tə ðə ɡɹˈaʊnd, ænd ɐ stˈɜːɹ ʌv dˈɪm hˈɜːd sˈaʊnd wɪl ɹˈiːtʃ ɪt, ɐ mˈɜːmɚɹ ʌv slˈoʊ ɹᵻvˈoʊlt, lˈaɪk ðə hˈɪs əvɚ ɹˈaɪzɪŋ tˈaɪd. nˈoʊ ɹˈuːtlɪt fˈeɪnt ænd tʃˈɪl bˌʌt ʃˈɛɹz ðə kwˈɪvɚɹɪŋ θɹˈɪl ; ænd mjˈuːtɪnəs wˈɪspɚz kˈʌm ænd ɡˌoʊ wˌɛɹ ðə θɹˈɔːlz ʌvðə wˈɪntɚ hˈaɪd.