text_original: _ Is heaven like earth on a nobler plan, As in dreams we image it, hopefully, Or does the Spirit forget the Man? _Timor mortis conturbat me._ Shall I be I when the death throe's past, Soul from the flesh set only free, Or in new mould shall I be recast? _Timor mortis conturbat me.
text_transcription: IS HEAVEN LIKE EARTH ON A NOBLER PLAN AS IN DREAMS WE IMAGINE IT HOPEFULLY OR DOES THE SPIRIT FORGET THE MAN TIMO MOTIS CONTOR BUT ME SHALL I BE I WHEN THE DEATH ROSE PAST SOUL FROM THE FLESH SET ONLY FREE OR IN NEW MOULD SHALL I BE RECAST TIMO MORTIS CONTOUR BUT ME
phonemes: ɪz hˈɛvən lˈaɪk ˈɜːθ ˌɔn ɐ nˈoʊblɚ plˈæn, æz ɪn dɹˈiːmz wiː ˈɪmɪdʒ ɪt, hˈoʊpfəli, ɔːɹ dˈʌz ðə spˈɪɹɪt fɚɡˈɛt ðə mˈæn? tˈiːmɔːɹ mˈɔːɹɾiz kəntˈɜːbæt mˌiː.ʃˌæl aɪ biː aɪ wɛn ðə dˈɛθ θɹˈoʊz pˈæst, sˈoʊl fɹʌmðə flˈɛʃ sˈɛt ˈoʊnli fɹˈiː, ɔːɹ ɪn nˈuː mˈoʊld ʃˌæl aɪ biː ɹᵻkˈæst? tˈiːmɔːɹ mˈɔːɹɾiz kəntˈɜːbæt mˌiː.