text_original: She mounted with a face elate, Shut was the carriage door; They drove her to the madhouse gate, And she was seen no more . . . Yet she was fair as early day Shining on meads unmown, And her sweet syllables seemed to play Like flute notes softly blown.
text_transcription: SHE MOUNTED WITH A FACE ELATE SHUT WAS THE CARRIAGE DOOR THEY DROVE HER TO THE MADHOUSE GATE AND SHE WAS SEEN NO MORE YET SHE WAS FAIR AS EARLY DAY SHINING ON MEADS UNKNOWN AND HER SWEET SYLLABLES SEEMED TO PLAY LIKE FLUTE NOTES SOFTLY BLOWN
phonemes: ʃiː mˈaʊntᵻd wɪð ɐ fˈeɪs ᵻlˈeɪt, ʃˈʌt wʌzðə kˈæɹɪdʒ dˈɔːɹ; ðeɪ dɹˈoʊv hɜː tə ðə mˈædhaʊs ɡˈeɪt, ænd ʃiː wʌz sˈiːn nˈoʊmˌɔːɹ . . . jˈɛt ʃiː wʌz fˈɛɹ æz ˈɜːli dˈeɪ ʃˈaɪnɪŋ ˌɔn mˈiːdz ʌnmˈoʊn, ænd hɜː swˈiːt sˈɪləbəlz sˈiːmd tə plˈeɪ lˈaɪk flˈuːt nˈoʊts sˈɔftli blˈoʊn.