text_original: up and down hill after hill; Dead grey night for five hours still. The hill road droppeth lower again, Lower, down to the poplar plain. No furlong farther for us to night, The Little Tower draweth in sight; They are ringing the bells, and the torches glare, Therefore the roofs of wet slate stare.
text_transcription: UP AND DOWN HILL AFTER HILL DEAD GREY NIGHT FOR FIVE HOURS STILL THE HILL ROAD DROPETH LOWER AGAIN LOWER DOWN TO THE POPLAR PLAIN NO FURLONG FARTHER FOR US TO NIGHT THE LITTLE TOWER DRAWETH IN SIGHT THEY ARE RINGING THE BELLS AND THE TORCHES GLARE THEREFORE THE ROOFS OF WET SLATE STARE
phonemes: ˌʌp ænd dˌaʊn hˈɪl ˈæftɚ hˈɪl; dˈɛd ɡɹˈeɪ nˈaɪt fɔːɹ fˈaɪv ˈaʊɚz stˈɪl. ðə hˈɪl ɹˈoʊd dɹˈɑːpəθ lˈoʊɚɹ ɐɡˈɛn, lˈoʊɚ, dˌaʊn tə ðə pˈɑːplɚ plˈeɪn. nˈoʊ fˈɜːlɔŋ fˈɑːɹðɚ fɔːɹ ˌʌs tə nˈaɪt, ðə lˈɪɾəl tˈaʊɚ dɹˈɔːθ ɪn sˈaɪt; ðeɪ ɑːɹ ɹˈɪŋɪŋ ðə bˈɛlz, ænd ðə tˈɔːɹtʃᵻz ɡlˈɛɹ, ðˈɛɹfɔːɹ ðə ɹˈuːfs ʌv wˈɛt slˈeɪt stˈɛɹ.