text_original: If I could glimpse him by the vine Where purple fox grapes hang their store, I'd tell him, in his leafy shrine, How poets say he lives no more. He'd laugh, and pluck a muscadine, And fall to piping, as of yore!
text_transcription: IF I COULD GLIMPSE HIM BY THE VINE WHERE PURPLE FOXGRAPES HANG THEIR STORE I'D TELL HIM IN HIS LEAFY SHRINE HOW POETS SAY HE LIVES NO MORE HE'D LAUGH AND PLUCK A MUSCODINE AND FALL TO PIPING AS OF YORE
phonemes: ɪf aɪ kʊd ɡlˈɪmps hˌɪm baɪ ðə vˈaɪn wˌɛɹ pˈɜːpəl fˈɑːks ɡɹˈeɪps hˈæŋ ðɛɹ stˈɔːɹ, aɪd tˈɛl hˌɪm, ɪn hɪz lˈiːfi ʃɹˈaɪn, hˌaʊ pˈoʊɪts sˈeɪ hiː lˈɪvz nˈoʊmˌɔːɹ. hiːd lˈæf, ænd plˈʌk ɐ mˈʌskɐdˌiːn, ænd fˈɔːl tə pˈaɪpɪŋ, æz ʌv jˈɔːɹ!