text_original: AT DAY CLOSE IN NOVEMBER THE ten hours' light is abating, And a late bird flies across, Where the pines, like waltzers waiting, Give their black heads a toss.
text_transcription: AT DAY CLOSE IN NOVEMBER THE TEN HOUR SLIDE IS ABATING AND THE LATE BIRD FLIES ACROSS WHERE THE PINES LIKE WALTZERS WAITING GIVE THEIR BLACK HEADS A TOSS
phonemes: æt dˈeɪ klˈoʊs ɪn noʊvˈɛmbɚ ðə tˈɛn ˈaʊɚz lˈaɪt ɪz ɐbˈeɪɾɪŋ, ænd ɐ lˈeɪt bˈɜːd flˈaɪz əkɹˈɑːs, wˌɛɹ ðə pˈaɪnz, lˈaɪk wˈɔltsɚz wˈeɪɾɪŋ, ɡˈɪv ðɛɹ blˈæk hˈɛdz ɐ tˈɔs.