text_original: I skipped at morn Between the yellowing corn, Thinking it good and glorious to be born. I ran at eves Among the piled up sheaves, Dreaming, "I grieve not, therefore nothing grieves." Now soon will come The apple, pear, and plum And hinds will sing, and autumn insects hum.
text_transcription: I SKIPPED THAT MORN BETWEEN THE YELLOWING CORN THINKING IT GOOD AND GLORIOUS TO BE BORN I RAN AT EAVES AMONG THE PILED UP SHEAVES DREAMING I GRIEVE NOT THEREFORE NOTHING GRIEVES NOW SOON WILL COME THE APPLE PEAR AND PLUM AND HINDS WILL SING AND AUTUMN INSECTS HUM
phonemes: aɪ skˈɪpt æt mˈɔːɹn bᵻtwˌiːn ðə jˈɛloʊɪŋ kˈɔːɹn, θˈɪŋkɪŋ ɪt ɡˈʊd ænd ɡlˈɔːɹiəs təbi bˈɔːɹn. aɪ ɹˈæn æɾ ˈiːvz ɐmˌʌŋ ðə pˈaɪld ˌʌp ʃˈiːvz, dɹˈiːmɪŋ, "aɪ ɡɹˈiːv nˈɑːt, ðˈɛɹfɔːɹ nˈʌθɪŋ ɡɹˈiːvz." nˈaʊ sˈuːn wɪl kˈʌm ðɪ ˈæpəl, pˈɛɹ, ænd plˈʌm ænd hˈaɪndz wɪl sˈɪŋ, ænd ˈɔːɾʌm ˈɪnsɛkts hˈʌm.