text_original: I stammer, all afire to tell The thoughts that urge for life like pain; For them words brim the shallow well Like easy drops of summer rain. And which, ah, Heaven, which is best   The little lute for every mood, Or, shrinking coldly from life's test, The heights and depths of solitude?
text_transcription: I STAMMER ALL AFIRE TO TELL THE THOUGHTS THAT URGE FOR LIFE LIKE PAIN FOR THEM WORDS BRIM THE SHALLOW WELL LIKE EASY DROPS OF SUMMER RAIN AND WHICH AH HEAVEN WHICH IS BEST THE LITTLE LUTE FOR EVERY MOOD OR SHRINKING COLDLY FROM LIFE'S TEST THE HEIGHTS AND DEPTHS OF SOLITUDE
phonemes: aɪ stˈæmɚ, ˈɔːl ɐfˈaɪɚ tə tˈɛl ðə θˈɔːts ðæt ˈɜːdʒ fɔːɹ lˈaɪf lˈaɪk pˈeɪn; fɔːɹ ðˌɛm wˈɜːdz bɹˈɪm ðə ʃˈæloʊ wˈɛl lˈaɪk ˈiːzi dɹˈɑːps ʌv sˈʌmɚ ɹˈeɪn. ænd wˈɪtʃ, ˈɑː, hˈɛvən, wˌɪtʃ ɪz bˈɛst ðə lˈɪɾəl lˈuːt fɔːɹ ˈɛvɹi mˈuːd, ɔːɹ, ʃɹˈɪŋkɪŋ kˈoʊldli fɹʌm lˈaɪfz tˈɛst, ðə hˈaɪts ænd dˈɛpθs ʌv sˈɑːlɪtˌuːd?