text_original: These things  the beads she wore about her throat Alternate blue and amber all untied, A lamp to light her way, and on one side The toll men pay to that strange ferry boat. No trace to day of what in her was fair! Only the record of long years grown green Upon the mirror's lustreless dead sheen, Grown dim at last, when all else withered there.
text_transcription: THESE THINGS THE BEADS SHE WORE ABOUT HER THROAT ALTERNATE BLUE AND AMBER ALL UNTIED A LAMP TO LIGHT HER WAY AND ON ONE SIDE THE TALL MEN PAY TO THAT STRANGE FAIRY BOAT NO TRACE TO DAY OF WHAT IN HER WAS FAIR ONLY THE RECORD OF LONG YEARS GROWN GREEN UPON THE MIRRORS LUSTRELESS DEAD SHEEN GROWN DIM AT LAST WHEN ALL ELSE WITHERED THERE
phonemes: ðiːz θˈɪŋz ðə bˈiːdz ʃiː wˈɔːɹ ɐbˌaʊt hɜː θɹˈoʊt ɔːltˈɜːnət blˈuː ænd ˈæmbɚɹ ˈɔːl ʌntˈaɪd, ɐ lˈæmp tə lˈaɪt hɜː wˈeɪ, ænd ˌɔn wˈʌn sˈaɪd ðə tˈoʊl mˈɛn pˈeɪ tə ðæt stɹˈeɪndʒ fˈɛɹi bˈoʊt. nˈoʊ tɹˈeɪs tə dˈeɪ ʌv wʌt ɪn hɜː wʌz fˈɛɹ! ˈoʊnli ðə ɹˈɛkɚd ʌv lˈɔŋ jˈɪɹz ɡɹˈoʊn ɡɹˈiːn əpˌɑːn ðə mˈɪɹɚz lˈʌstɚləs dˈɛd ʃˈiːn, ɡɹˈoʊn dˈɪm æt lˈæst, wˌɛn ˈɔːl ˈɛls wˈɪðɚd ðˈɛɹ.