text_original: So she does not sleep By those haunted heights The Atlantic smites And the blind gales sweep, Whence she often would gaze At Dundagel's far head, While the dipping blaze Dyed her face fire red; And would sigh at the tale Of sunk Lyonnesse, As a wind tugged tress Flapped her cheek like a flail; Or listen at whiles With a thought bound brow To the murmuring miles She is far from now.
text_transcription: SO SHE DOES NOT SLEEP BY THOSE HAUNTED HEIGHTS THE ATLANTIC SMITES AND THE BLIND GALES SWEEP WHENCE SHE OFTEN WOULD GAZE AT DUN ANGEL'S FAR HEAD WHILE THE DIPPING BLAZE DIGHT HER FACE FIRE RED AND WOULD SIGH AT THE TALE OF SANC LIONES AS A WIND TUGGED DRESS FLAPPED HER CHEEK LIKE A FLAIL OR LISTEN AT WILDS WITH A THOUGHT BOUND BROW TO THE MURMURING MILES SHE IS FAR FROM NOW
phonemes: sˌoʊ ʃiː dʌznˌɑːt slˈiːp baɪ ðoʊz hˈɔːntᵻd hˈaɪts ðɪ ɐtlˈæntɪk smˈaɪts ænd ðə blˈaɪnd ɡˈeɪlz swˈiːp, wˈɛns ʃiː ˈɔfən wʊd ɡˈeɪz æt dˈʌndeɪdʒəlz fˈɑːɹ hˈɛd, wˌaɪl ðə dˈɪpɪŋ blˈeɪz dˈaɪd hɜː fˈeɪs fˈaɪɚ ɹˈɛd; ænd wʊd sˈaɪ æt ðə tˈeɪl ʌv sˈʌŋk lˈaɪənˌɛs, æz ɐ wˈɪnd tˈʌɡd tɹˈɛs flˈæpt hɜː tʃˈiːk lˈaɪk ɐ flˈeɪl; ɔːɹ lˈɪsən æt wˌaɪlz wɪð ɐ θˈɔːt bˈaʊnd bɹˈaʊ tə ðə mˈɜːmɚɹɪŋ mˈaɪlz ʃiː ɪz fˈɑːɹ fɹʌm nˈaʊ.