text_original: How closely memory's tendrils twine About the heart, and choke the words that spring. It only throbs, the touch half answering, Like this old bell, held speechless by the vine.
text_transcription: HOW CLOSELY MEMORY'S TENDRILS TWINE ABOUT THE HEART AND CHOKE THE WORDS THAT SPRING IT ONLY THROBS THE TOUCH HALF ANSWERING LIKE THIS OLD BELL HELD SPEECHLESS BY DIVINE
phonemes: hˌaʊ klˈoʊsli mˈɛmɚɹiz tˈɛndɹəlz twˈaɪn ɐbˌaʊt ðə hˈɑːɹt, ænd tʃˈoʊk ðə wˈɜːdz ðæt spɹˈɪŋ. ɪɾ ˈoʊnli θɹˈɑːbz, ðə tˈʌtʃ hˈæf ˈænsɚɹɪŋ, lˈaɪk ðɪs ˈoʊld bˈɛl, hˈɛld spˈiːtʃləs baɪ ðə vˈaɪn.