text_original: If I should die to night, Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, Recalling other days remorsefully; The eyes that chill me with averted glance Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, And soften, in the old familiar way; For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay?
text_transcription: IF I SHOULD DIE TO NIGHT EVEN HEARTS ESTRANGED WOULD TURN ONCE MORE TO ME RECALLING OTHER DAYS REMORSEFULLY THE EYES THAT CHILL ME WITH AVERTED GLANCE WOULD LOOK UPON ME AS OF YOUR PERCHANCE AND SOFTEN IN THE OLD FAMILIAR WAY FOR WHO COULD WAR WITH DUMB UNCONSCIOUS CLAY
phonemes: ɪf aɪ ʃˌʊd dˈaɪ tə nˈaɪt, ˈiːvən hˈɑːɹts ɛstɹˈeɪndʒd wʊd tˈɜːn wˈʌns mˈɔːɹ tə mˌiː, ɹᵻkˈɔːlɪŋ ˈʌðɚ dˈeɪz ɹᵻmˈɔːɹsfəli; ðɪ ˈaɪz ðæt tʃˈɪl mˌiː wɪð ɐvˈɜːɾᵻd ɡlˈæns wʊd lˈʊk əpˌɑːn mˌiː æz ʌv jˈɔːɹ, pɚtʃˈæns, ænd sˈɔfən, ɪnðɪ ˈoʊld fəmˈɪlɪɹ wˈeɪ; fɔːɹ hˌuː kʊd wˈɔːɹ wɪð dˈʌm, ʌŋkˈɑːnʃəs klˈeɪ?