text_original: Yet why will you smile at my old white years When love was a gift divine, When songs were laughter and hope and tears, And art was a people's shrine? Must I change the burdens I loved to sing, The words of my worn out song? The old fair thoughts have a hollow ring, My faiths have been dead so long.
text_transcription: YET WHY WILL YOU SMILE AT MY OLD WHITE YEARS WHEN LOVE WAS A GIFT DIVINE WHEN SONGS WERE LAUGHTER AND HOPE AND TEARS AND ART WAS A PEOPLED SHRINE MUST I CHANGE THE BURDENS I LOVED TO SING THE WORDS OF MY WORN OUT SONG THE OLD FAIR THOUGHTS HAVE A HOLLOW RING MY FAITH HATH BEEN DEAD SO LONG
phonemes: jˈɛt wˌaɪ wɪl juː smˈaɪl æt maɪ ˈoʊld wˈaɪt jˈɪɹz wɛn lˈʌv wʌzɐ ɡˈɪft dᵻvˈaɪn, wˌɛn sˈɔŋz wɜː lˈæftɚ ænd hˈoʊp ænd tˈɪɹz, ænd ˈɑːɹt wʌzɐ pˈiːpəlz ʃɹˈaɪn? mˈʌst aɪ tʃˈeɪndʒ ðə bˈɜːdənz aɪ lˈʌvd tə sˈɪŋ, ðə wˈɜːdz ʌv maɪ wˈɔːɹn ˈaʊt sˈɔŋ? ðɪ ˈoʊld fˈɛɹ θˈɔːts hæv ɐ hˈɑːloʊ ɹˈɪŋ, maɪ fˈeɪθs hɐvbɪn dˈɛd sˌoʊ lˈɔŋ.