text_original: In those grim wilds no sweet voiced bird will sing, No flowers will bloom within those trackless lands, Nor is there trace of any living thing, Save those gaunt giants, holding up their hands. And when they fall, still round the unknown spot Howls the rough wind, till in the common ground They end the life which is  and yet is not,   A riddle where no meaning shall be found.
text_transcription: IN THOSE GRIM WILDS NO SWEET VOICED BIRD WILL SING NO FLOWERS WILL BLOOM WITHIN THOSE TRACKLESS LANDS NOR IS THERE TRACE OF ANY LIVING THING SAVE THOSE GAUNT GIANTS HOLDING UP THEIR HANDS AND WHEN THEY FALL STILL ROUND THE UNKNOWN SPOT HOWLS THE ROUGH WIND TILL IN THE COMMON GROUND THEY END THE LIFE WHICH IS AND YET IS NOT A RIDDLE WHERE NO MEANING SHALL BE FOUND
phonemes: ɪn ðoʊz ɡɹˈɪm wˈaɪldz nˈoʊ swˈiːt vˈɔɪst bˈɜːd wɪl sˈɪŋ, nˈoʊ flˈaʊɚz wɪl blˈuːm wɪðˌɪn ðoʊz tɹˈækləs lˈændz, nˈɔːɹ ɪz ðɛɹ tɹˈeɪs ʌv ˌɛni lˈɪvɪŋ θˈɪŋ, sˈeɪv ðoʊz ɡˈɔːnt dʒˈaɪənts, hˈoʊldɪŋ ˌʌp ðɛɹ hˈændz. ænd wɛn ðeɪ fˈɔːl, stˈɪl ɹˈaʊnd ðɪ ʌnnˈoʊn spˈɑːt hˈaʊlz ðə ɹˈʌf wˈɪnd, tˈɪl ɪnðə kˈɑːmən ɡɹˈaʊnd ðeɪ ˈɛnd ðə lˈaɪf wˌɪtʃ ɪz ænd jˈɛt ɪz nˈɑːt,   ɐ ɹˈɪdəl wˌɛɹ nˈoʊ mˈiːnɪŋ ʃˌæl biː fˈaʊnd.