text_original: From matins' bell to the slow day's decline He sits and thumbs his endless round of beads, Drawls out the dreary cadence of his creeds And nods assent to each familiar line.
text_transcription: FROM MATIN'S BELL TO THE SLOW DAYS DECLINE HE SITS AND THUMBS HIS ENDLESS ROUND OF BEADS DRAWLS OUT THE DREARY CADENS OF HIS CREEDS AND NODS ASSENT TO EACH FAMILIAR LINE
phonemes: fɹʌm mˈætɪnz bˈɛl tə ðə slˈoʊ dˈeɪz dᵻklˈaɪn hiː sˈɪts ænd θˈʌmz hɪz ˈɛndləs ɹˈaʊnd ʌv bˈiːdz, dɹˈɔːlz ˈaʊt ðə dɹˈɪɹi kˈeɪdəns ʌv hɪz kɹˈiːdz ænd nˈɑːdz ɐsˈɛnt tʊ ˈiːtʃ fəmˈɪlɪɹ lˈaɪn.