text_original: Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with faded flowers, That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze; Sounds the most faint attract the ear, — the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, Tin 1 distant bleating, midway up the hill.
text_transcription: MUTE IS THE VOICE OF RURAL LABOR HUSHED THE PLOUGHBOY'S WHISTLE AND THE MILKMAID'S SONG THE SCYTHE LIES GLITTERING IN THE DEWY WREATH OF TADD GRASS MINGLED WITH FADED FLOWERS THAT YESTER MORN BLOOMED WAVING IN THE BREEZE SOUNDS THE MOST FAINT ATTRACT THE EAR THE HUM OF EARLY BEE THE TRICKLING OF THE DEW THE DISTANT BLEATING MIDWAY UP THE HILL
phonemes: mjˈuːt ɪz ðə vˈɔɪs ʌv ɹˈʊɹɹəl lˈeɪbɚ, hˈʌʃt ðə plˈaʊbɔɪz wˈɪsəl ænd ðə mˈɪlkmeɪdz sˈɔŋ. ðə sˈaɪð lˈaɪz ɡlˈɪɾɚɹɪŋ ɪnðə dˈuːi ɹˈiːθ ʌv tˈɛdᵻd ɡɹˈæs, mˈɪŋɡəld wɪð fˈeɪdᵻd flˈaʊɚz, ðæt jˈɛstɚmˌɔːɹn blˈuːmd wˈeɪvɪŋ ɪnðə bɹˈiːz; sˈaʊndz ðə mˈoʊst fˈeɪnt ɐtɹˈækt ðɪ ˈɪɹ, — ðə hˈʌm ʌv ˈɜːli bˈiː, ðə tɹˈɪklɪŋ ʌvðə dˈuː, tˈɪn wˈʌn dˈɪstənt blˈiːɾɪŋ, mˈɪdweɪ ˌʌp ðə hˈɪl.