text_original: _ Wife that I love as the sea the moon, Babes that prattle about my knee; Has heaven itself a dearer boon? _Timor mortis conturbat me._ Is there heaven at all or only the grave With the lisp of rain in the willow tree, Will the after death give all I crave?
text_transcription: WIFE THAT I LOVE AS THE SEA THE MOON BABES THAT PRATTLE ABOUT MY KNEE HAS HEAVEN ITSELF A DEARER BOON TIMO MORTIS CONTOUR BUT ME IS THERE HEAVEN AT ALL OR ONLY THE GRAVE WITH THE LISP OF RAIN IN THE WILLOW TREE WILL THE AFTER DEATH GIVE ALL I CRAVE
phonemes: wˈaɪf ðæt aɪ lˈʌv æz ðə sˈiː ðə mˈuːn, bˈeɪbz ðæt pɹˈæɾəl ɐbˌaʊt maɪ nˈiː; hɐz hˈɛvən ɪtsˈɛlf ɐ dˈɪɹɚ bˈuːn? tˈiːmɔːɹ mˈɔːɹɾiz kəntˈɜːbæt mˌiː.ɪz ðɛɹ hˈɛvən æɾ ˈɔːl ɔːɹ ˈoʊnli ðə ɡɹˈeɪv wɪððə lˈɪsp ʌv ɹˈeɪn ɪnðə wˈɪloʊ tɹˈiː, wɪl ðɪ ˈæftɚ dˈɛθ ɡˈɪv ˈɔːl aɪ kɹˈeɪv?