text_original: Our old familiars are not laid, Though snapped our wands and sunk our books, They beckon, not to be gainsaid, Where, round broad meads which mowers wade, Smooth Charles his steel blue sickle crooks; Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow, From glow to gloom the hillside shifts Its lakes of rye that surge and flow, Its plumps of orchard trees arow, Its snowy white weed's summer drifts.
text_transcription: OUR OLD FAMILIARS ARE NOT LATE THOUGH SNAPPED OUR WANDS AND SUNG OUR BOOKS THEY BECKON NOT TO BE GAINSAID WHERE ROUND BROAD MEADS WHICH MOWERS WEIGHED SMOOTH CHARTS HIS STEEL BLUE SICKLE CROOKS WHERE AS THE CLOUDBURGS EASTWARD BLOW FROM GLOW TO GLOOM THE HILLSIDE SHIFTS ITS LAKES OF RYE THAT SURGE AND FLOW ITS PLUMS OF ORCHARD TREES ARROW ITS SNOWY WHITE WEEDS SUMMER DRIFTS
phonemes: ˌaʊɚɹ ˈoʊld fəmˈɪlɪɹz ɑːɹ nˌɑːt lˈeɪd, ðˌoʊ snˈæpt ˌaʊɚ wˈɔndz ænd sˈʌŋk ˌaʊɚ bˈʊks, ðeɪ bˈɛkən, nˌɑːt təbi ɡˈeɪnsɛd, wˈɛɹ, ɹˈaʊnd bɹˈɔːd mˈiːdz wˌɪtʃ mˈoʊɚz wˈeɪd, smˈuːð tʃˈɑːɹlz hɪz stˈiːl blˈuː sˈɪkəl kɹˈʊks; wˈɛɹ, æz ðə klˈaʊdbɜːɡz ˈiːstwɚd blˈoʊ, fɹʌm ɡlˈoʊ tə ɡlˈuːm ðə hˈɪlsaɪd ʃˈɪfts ɪts lˈeɪks ʌv ɹˈaɪ ðæt sˈɜːdʒ ænd flˈoʊ, ɪts plˈʌmps ʌv ˈɔːɹtʃɚd tɹˈiːz ˈæɹoʊ, ɪts snˈoʊi wˈaɪt wˈiːdz sˈʌmɚ dɹˈɪfts.