text_original: Surely the summer clothes, with all her arts, No other garden with such grace and power; And 'tis the poignant joy close folded in our hearts That cries its life aloud from every flaming flower.
text_transcription: SURELY THE SUMMER CLOSE WITH ALL HER ARTS NO OTHER GARDEN WITH SUCH GRACE AND POWER AND IT'S THE POIGNANT JOY CLOSE FOLDED IN OUR HEARTS THAT CRIES ITS LIFE ALOUD FROM EVERY FLAMING FLOWER
phonemes: ʃˈʊɹli ðə sˈʌmɚ klˈoʊðz, wɪð ˈɔːl hɜːɹ ˈɑːɹts, nˈoʊ ˈʌðɚ ɡˈɑːɹdən wɪð sˈʌtʃ ɡɹˈeɪs ænd pˈaʊɚ; ænd tˈɪz ðə pˈɔɪnjənt dʒˈɔɪ klˈoʊs fˈoʊldᵻd ɪn ˌaʊɚ hˈɑːɹts ðæt kɹˈaɪz ɪts lˈaɪf ɐlˈaʊd fɹʌm ˈɛvɹi flˈeɪmɪŋ flˈaʊɚ.