text_original: Then the mountains, whose white peaks Catch the morning's earliest streaks, He must see, where prophets sit, Turning east their faces lit, Whence, with footsteps beautiful, To the earth, yet dim and dull, They the gladsome tidings bring, Of the sunlight's hastening: Never can those hills of bliss Be o'erclimbed by feet like his!
text_transcription: THEN THE MOUNTAINS WHOSE WHITE PEAKS CATCH THE MORNING'S EARLIEST STREAKS HE MUST SEE WHERE PROPHETS SIT TURNING EAST THEIR FACES SLIT WHENCE WITH FOOTSTEPS BEAUTIFUL TO THE EARTH YET DIM AND DULL THEY THE GLADSOME TIDING SPRING OF THE SUNLIGHT'S HASTENING NEVER CAN THOSE HILLS OF BLISS BE OVERCLIMBED BY FEET LIKE THIS
phonemes: ðˈɛn ðə mˈaʊntɪnz, hˌuːz wˈaɪt pˈiːks kˈætʃ ðə mˈɔːɹnɪŋz ˈɜːlɪɪst stɹˈiːks, hiː mˈʌst sˈiː, wˌɛɹ pɹˈɑːfɪts sˈɪt, tˈɜːnɪŋ ˈiːst ðɛɹ fˈeɪsᵻz lˈɪt, wˈɛns, wɪð fˈʊtstɛps bjˈuːɾifəl, tə ðɪ ˈɜːθ, jˈɛt dˈɪm ænd dˈʌl, ðeɪ ðə ɡlˈædsʌm tˈaɪdɪŋz bɹˈɪŋ, ʌvðə sˈʌnlaɪts hˈeɪsənɪŋ: nˈɛvɚ kæn ðoʊz hˈɪlz ʌv blˈɪs biː ˈɔːɹklaɪmd baɪ fˈiːt lˈaɪk hˈɪz!