text_original: My Love, thy heart is like a prayer To one who, dying at the gates of morn, Stirless, in splendid effort and great scorn, Sends forth his soul to meet the last despair. 66 SONG And oh, thy Love is as a road To one who waits in deserts of the soul, And sees through Life, whose waves of fever roll, The waking Sorrow in the breast of God.
text_transcription: MY LOVE THY HEART IS LIKE A PRAYER TO ONE WHO DYING AT THE GATES OF MORN STIRLESS IN SPLENDID EFFORT AND GREAT SCORN SENDS FORTH HIS SOUL TO MEET THE LAST DESPAIR AND OH THY LOVE IS AS A ROAD TO ONE WHO WAITS IN DESERTS OF THE SOUL AND SEES THROUGH LIFE WHOSE WAVES OF FEVER ROLL THE WAKING SORROW IN THE BREAST OF GOD
phonemes: maɪ lˈʌv, ðˌaɪ hˈɑːɹt ɪz lˈaɪk ɐ pɹˈɛɹ tə wˈʌn hˈuː, dˈaɪɪŋ æt ðə ɡˈeɪts ʌv mˈɔːɹn, stˈɜːləs, ɪn splˈɛndɪd ˈɛfɚt ænd ɡɹˈeɪt skˈɔːɹn, sˈɛndz fˈɔːɹθ hɪz sˈoʊl tə mˈiːt ðə lˈæst dᵻspˈɛɹ. sˈɪksti sˈɪks sˈɔŋ ænd ˈoʊ, ðˌaɪ lˈʌv ɪz æz ɐ ɹˈoʊd tə wˈʌn hˌuː wˈeɪts ɪn dˈɛzɚts ʌvðə sˈoʊl, ænd sˈiːz θɹuː lˈaɪf, hˌuːz wˈeɪvz ʌv fˈiːvɚ ɹˈoʊl, ðə wˈeɪkɪŋ sˈɑːɹoʊ ɪnðə bɹˈɛst ʌv ɡˈɑːd.