text_original: Words are feeble. Where is the language that has energy enough to describe the crowd of pleasures which rush upon my mind, while I am retracing our past scenes of happiness; or that can give its true colouring to my regret, when I call up the present separation, which bids them depart for a season?
text_transcription: WORDS ARE FEEBLE WHERE IS THE LANGUAGE THAT HAS ENERGY ENOUGH TO DESCRIBE THE CROWD OF PLEASURES WHICH RUSH UPON MY MIND WHILE I AM RETRACING OUR PAST SCENES OF HAPPINESS OR THAT CAN GIVE ITS TRUE COLORING TO MY REGRET WHEN I CALL UP THE PRESENT SEPARATION WHICH BIDS THEM DEPART FOR A SEASON
phonemes: wˈɜːdz ɑːɹ fˈiːbəl. wˌɛɹ ɪz ðə lˈæŋɡwɪdʒ ðæt hɐz ˈɛnɚdʒi ɪnˈʌf tə dᵻskɹˈaɪb ðə kɹˈaʊd ʌv plˈɛʒɚz wˌɪtʃ ɹˈʌʃ əpˌɑːn maɪ mˈaɪnd, wˌaɪl aɪɐm ɹᵻtɹˈeɪsɪŋ ˌaʊɚ pˈæst sˈiːnz ʌv hˈæpɪnəs; ɔːɹ ðæt kæn ɡˈɪv ɪts tɹˈuː kˈʌlɚɹɪŋ tə maɪ ɹᵻɡɹˈɛt, wˌɛn aɪ kˈɔːl ˌʌp ðə pɹˈɛzənt sˌɛpɚɹˈeɪʃən, wˌɪtʃ bˈɪdz ðˌɛm dᵻpˈɑːɹt fɚɹə sˈiːzən?