text_original: 116 POEMS OF NATURE. Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures, and his fields of grain, As the}* bend their tops To the numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain.
text_transcription: NEAR AT HAND FROM UNDER THE SHELTERING TREES THE FARMER SEES HIS PASTURES AND HIS FIELDS OF GRAIN AS THEY BEND THEIR TOPS TO THE NUMBERLESS BEATING DROPS OF THE INCESSANT RAIN HE COUNTS IT AS NO SIN THAT HE SEES THEREIN ONLY HIS OWN THRIFT AND GAIN
phonemes: wˈʌnhˈʌndɹɪd sˈɪkstiːn pˈoʊᵻmz ʌv nˈeɪtʃɚ. nˌɪɹ æt hˈænd, fɹʌm ˌʌndɚ ðə ʃˈɛltɚɹɪŋ tɹˈiːz, ðə fˈɑːɹmɚ sˈiːz hɪz pˈæstʃɚz, ænd hɪz fˈiːldz ʌv ɡɹˈeɪn, æz ðə}ˈæstɚɹˌɪsk bˈɛnd ðɛɹ tˈɑːps tə ðə nˈʌmbɚləs bˈiːɾɪŋ dɹˈɑːps ʌvðɪ ɪnsˈɛsənt ɹˈeɪn. hiː kˈaʊnts ɪɾ æz nˈoʊ sˈɪn ðæt hiː sˈiːz ðɛɹˈɪn ˈoʊnli hɪz ˈoʊn θɹˈɪft ænd ɡˈeɪn.