text_original: THE grandsire, in the chimney corner, takes The almanac from its accustomed place, And while the kettle swings upon the crane, And firelight flickers on his wrinkled face, Reviews the slow procession of the months; And sees again upon the hills of green The gypsy Springtime pitch her airy tent Among the blossoms.
text_transcription: THE GRANDSIRE IN THE CHIMNEY CORNER TAKES THE ALMANAC FROM ITS ACCUSTOMED PLACE AND WHILE THE KETTLE SWINGS UPON THE CRANE AND FIRELIGHT FLICKERS ON HIS WRINKLED FACE REVIEWS THE SLOW PROCESSION OF THE MONTH AND SEES AGAIN UPON THE HILLS OF GREEN THE GIPSY SPRINGTIME PITCH HER AIRY TENT AMONG THE BLOSSOMS
phonemes: ðə ɡɹˈændsaɪɚ, ɪnðə tʃˈɪmni kˈɔːɹnɚ, tˈeɪks ðɪ ˈɔlmɐnˌæk fɹʌm ɪts ɐkˈʌstəmd plˈeɪs, ænd wˌaɪl ðə kˈɛɾəl swˈɪŋz əpˌɑːn ðə kɹˈeɪn, ænd fˈaɪɚlaɪt flˈɪkɚz ˌɔn hɪz ɹˈɪŋkəld fˈeɪs, ɹᵻvjˈuːz ðə slˈoʊ pɹəsˈɛʃən ʌvðə mˈʌnθs; ænd sˈiːz ɐɡˈɛn əpˌɑːn ðə hˈɪlz ʌv ɡɹˈiːn ðə dʒˈɪpsi spɹˈɪŋtaɪm pˈɪtʃ hɜːɹ ˈɛɹi tˈɛnt ɐmˌʌŋ ðə blˈɔsəmz.