text_original: V Whither? Who knows, indeed . . . And yet To me, when nights are weird and wet, Without those comrades there at tryst Creeping slowly, creeping sadly, That lone lane does not exist. There they seem brooding on their pain, And will, while such a lane remain.
text_transcription: FIVE WHITHER WHO KNOWS INDEED AND YET TO ME WHEN NIGHTS ARE WEIRD AND WET WITHOUT THOSE COMRADES THERE TWIST CREEPING SLOWLY CREEPING SADLY THAT LONE LANE DOES NOT EXIST THERE THEY SEEM BROODING ON THEIR PAIN AND WILL SUCH A LANE REMAIN
phonemes: vˈiː wˈɪðɚ? hˌuː nˈoʊz, ˌɪndˈiːd . . . ænd jˈɛt tə mˌiː, wˌɛn nˈaɪts ɑːɹ wˈɪɹd ænd wˈɛt, wɪðˌaʊt ðoʊz kˈɑːmɹædz ðɛɹ æt tɹˈɪst kɹˈiːpɪŋ slˈoʊli, kɹˈiːpɪŋ sˈædli, ðæt lˈoʊn lˈeɪn dʌznˌɑːt ɛɡzˈɪst. ðɛɹ ðeɪ sˈiːm bɹˈuːdɪŋ ˌɔn ðɛɹ pˈeɪn, ænd wˈɪl, wˌaɪl sˈʌtʃ ɐ lˈeɪn ɹᵻmˈeɪn.