text_original: lace gate Is so hard to see, We two must wait For the angel's key. AT TIBER MOUTH The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds, Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads; And the strong wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath, As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death.
text_transcription: AT TIBER MOUTH BY RANAL ROD READ FOR LIBERVOXEDOD ORK BY SONYA AT TIBER MOUTH THE LOW PLAINS STRETCH TO THE WEST WITH A GLIMMER OF RUSTLING WEEDS WHERE THE WAVES OF A GOLDEN RIVER WIND HOME BY THE MARSHY MEADS AND THE STRONG WIND BORN OF THE SEA GROWS FAINT WITH A SICKLY BREATH AS IT STAYS IN THE FRETTING RUSHES AND BLOWS ON THE DEWS OF DEATH
phonemes: lˈeɪs ɡˈeɪt ɪz sˌoʊ hˈɑːɹd tə sˈiː, wiː tˈuː mˈʌst wˈeɪt fɚðɪ ˈeɪndʒəlz kˈiː. æt tˈaɪbɚ mˈaʊθ ðə lˈoʊ plˈeɪnz stɹˈɛtʃ tə ðə wˈɛst wɪð ɐ ɡlˈɪmɚɹ ʌv ɹˈʌsəlɪŋ wˈiːdz, wˌɛɹ ðə wˈeɪvz əvə ɡˈoʊldən ɹˈɪvɚ wˈɪnd hˈoʊm baɪ ðə mˈɑːɹʃi mˈiːdz; ænd ðə stɹˈɔŋ wˈɪnd bˈɔːɹn ʌvðə sˈiː ɡɹˈoʊz fˈeɪnt wɪð ɐ sˈɪkli bɹˈɛθ, æz ɪt stˈeɪz ɪnðə fɹˈɛɾɪŋ ɹˈʌʃᵻz ænd blˈoʊz ɔnðə dˈuːz ʌv dˈɛθ.