text_original: XIX. Then like a drooping rose so bended she, Till her bow'd head upon her hand reposed; But still she plainly saw, or seem'd to see, That fair reflection, tho' her eyes were closed, A beauty bright as it was wont to be, A portrait Fancy painted while she dozed: 'Tis very natural some people say, To dream of what we dwell on in the day.
text_transcription: NINETEEN THEN LIKE A DROOPING ROSE SO BENDED SHE TILL HER BOWED HEAD UPON HER HAND REPOSED BUT STILL SHE PLAINLY SAW OR SEEMED TO SEE THAT FAIR REFLECTION THOUGH HER EYES WERE CLOSED A BEAUTY BRIGHT AS IT WAS WONT TO BE A PORTRAIT FANCY PAINTED WHILE SHE DOZED THIS VERY NATURAL SOME PEOPLE SAY TO DREAM OF WHAT WE DWELL ON IN THE DAY
phonemes: ɹˌoʊmən nˈaɪntiːn. ðˈɛn lˈaɪk ɐ dɹˈuːpɪŋ ɹˈoʊz sˌoʊ bˈɛndᵻd ʃiː, tˈɪl hɜː bˈoʊd hˈɛd əpˌɑːn hɜː hˈænd ɹᵻpˈoʊzd; bˌʌt stˈɪl ʃiː plˈeɪnli sˈɔː, ɔːɹ sˈiːmd tə sˈiː, ðæt fˈɛɹ ɹᵻflˈɛkʃən, ðˈoʊ hɜːɹ ˈaɪz wɜː klˈoʊzd, ɐ bjˈuːɾi bɹˈaɪt æz ɪt wʌz wˈɔnt tə bˈiː, ɐ pˈɔːɹtɹɪt fˈænsi pˈeɪntᵻd wˌaɪl ʃiː dˈoʊzd: tˈɪz vˈɛɹi nˈætʃɚɹəl sˌʌm pˈiːpəl sˈeɪ, tə dɹˈiːm ʌv wʌt wiː dwˈɛl ˌɔn ɪnðə dˈeɪ.