text_original: No more of singing; mating time has sped, In the broad fields the poppy lips are red. Crush them, Beloved, drink the lethe deep; Song being dead, what else is left but sleep?
text_transcription: NO MORE OF SINGING MATING TIME HAS SPED IN THE BROAD FIELDS THE POPPY LIPS ARE RED CRUSH THEM BELOVED DRINK THE LEATHY DEEP SONG BEING DEAD WHAT ELSE IS LEFT BUT SLEEP
phonemes: nˈoʊmˌɔːɹ ʌv sˈɪŋɪŋ; mˈeɪɾɪŋ tˈaɪm hɐz spˈɛd, ɪnðə bɹˈɔːd fˈiːldz ðə pˈɑːpi lˈɪps ɑːɹ ɹˈɛd. kɹˈʌʃ ðˌɛm, bᵻlˈʌvd, dɹˈɪŋk ðə lˈɛð dˈiːp; sˈɔŋ bˌiːɪŋ dˈɛd, wˌʌt ˈɛls ɪz lˈɛft bˌʌt slˈiːp?