text_original: Around the wrinkled earth My lips can feel the final heart throb creep, While autumn fills the world with solemn mirth That freights the vine and gilds the ripened sheaves That summer promised ; and upon my sleep The guardian oak shall drop its pride of leaves.
text_transcription: AROUND THE WRINKLED EARTH MY LIPS CAN FEEL THE FINAL HEART THROB CREEP WHILE AUTUMN FILLS THE WORLD WITH SOLEMN MIRTH THAT FREIGHTS THE VINE AND GILDS THE RIPENED SHEAVES THAT SUMMER PROMISED AND UPON MY SLEEP THE GUARDIAN OAK SHALL DROP ITS PRIDE OF LEAVES
phonemes: ɚɹˈaʊnd ðə ɹˈɪŋkəld ˈɜːθ maɪ lˈɪps kæn fˈiːl ðə fˈaɪnəl hˈɑːɹt θɹˈɑːb kɹˈiːp, wˌaɪl ˈɔːɾʌm fˈɪlz ðə wˈɜːld wɪð sˈɑːləm mˈɜːθ ðæt fɹˈeɪts ðə vˈaɪn ænd ɡˈɪldz ðə ɹˈaɪpənd ʃˈiːvz ðæt sˈʌmɚ pɹˈɑːmɪst ; ænd əpˌɑːn maɪ slˈiːp ðə ɡˈɑːɹdiən ˈoʊk ʃˌæl dɹˈɑːp ɪts pɹˈaɪd ʌv lˈiːvz.