text_original: The exquisite fabric of morning, too pure for the spoken word, From the cedar tree woven with twilight has uttered the song of a bird, 'Tis the wild, pure paean of pity, ever new since the world began, 'Tis the sadness fragrant with promise a day that is given to Man
text_transcription: THE EXQUISITE FABRIC OF MORNING TOO PURE FOR THE SPOKEN WORD FROM THE CEDAR TREE WOVEN WITH TWILIGHT HAS UTTERED THE SONG OF A BIRD TIS THE WILD PUPIAN OF PITY EVER KNEW SINCE THE WORLD BEGAN TIS THE SADNESS FRAGRANT WITH PROMISE A DAY THAT IS GIVEN TO MAN
phonemes: ðɪ ɛkskwˈɪsɪt fˈæbɹɪk ʌv mˈɔːɹnɪŋ, tˈuː pjˈʊɹ fɚðə spˈoʊkən wˈɜːd, fɹʌmðə sˈiːdɚ tɹˈiː wˈoʊvən wɪð twˈaɪlaɪt hɐz ˈʌɾɚd ðə sˈɔŋ əvə bˈɜːd, tˈɪz ðə wˈaɪld, pjˈʊɹ pˈiːən ʌv pˈɪɾi, ˈɛvɚ nˈuː sˈɪns ðə wˈɜːld bɪɡˈæn, tˈɪz ðə sˈædnəs fɹˈeɪɡɹənt wɪð pɹˈɑːmɪs ɐ dˈeɪ ðæt ɪz ɡˈɪvən tə mˈæn