text_original: No more under summer moons Their dead leaves drift to my feet, Like a haunting and tender repeat In the music of sweet lost tunes. Too gentle and vague for pain, Too pensive and sad for delight, Something elusive and bright As the fragrance that follows the rain.
text_transcription: NO MORE UNDER SUMMER MOONS THEIR DEAD LEAVES DRIFT TO MY FEET LIKE A HAUNTING AND TENDER REPEAT IN THE MUSIC OF SWEET LOST TUNES TOO GENTLE AND VAGUE FOR PAIN TOO PENSIVE AND SAD FOR DELIGHT SOMETHING ELUSIVE AND BRIGHT AS THE FRAGRANCE THAT FOLLOWS THE RAIN
phonemes: nˈoʊmˌɔːɹ ˌʌndɚ sˈʌmɚ mˈuːnz ðɛɹ dˈɛd lˈiːvz dɹˈɪft tə maɪ fˈiːt, lˈaɪk ɐ hˈɔːntɪŋ ænd tˈɛndɚ ɹᵻpˈiːt ɪnðə mjˈuːzɪk ʌv swˈiːt lˈɔst tˈuːnz. tˈuː dʒˈɛntəl ænd vˈeɪɡ fɔːɹ pˈeɪn, tˈuː pˈɛnsɪv ænd sˈæd fɔːɹ dᵻlˈaɪt, sˈʌmθɪŋ ᵻlˈuːsɪv ænd bɹˈaɪt æz ðə fɹˈeɪɡɹəns ðæt fˈɑːloʊz ðə ɹˈeɪn.