text_original: Love too tender and love too great To die with death, or to yield to fate; But your restless steed tells the hour is late. You mount him again and you ride away Into the west that is growing gray. Oh! turn the key on that dear bouquet. It is dry and faded and I am old: And the hand that gave it is green with mould, And the winter of life is cold  so cold.
text_transcription: LOVE TOO TENDER AND LOVE TOO GREAT TO DIE WITH DEATH OR TO YIELD TO FATE BUT YOUR RESTLESS STEED TELLS THE HOUR IS LATE YOU MOUNT HIM AGAIN AND YOU RIDE AWAY INTO THE WEST THAT IS GROWING GRAY OH TURN THE KEY ON THAT DEAR BOUQUET IT IS DRY AND FADED AND I AM OLD AND THE HAND THAT GAVE IT IS GREEN WITH MOULD AND THE WINTER OF LIFE IS COLD SO COLD
phonemes: lˈʌv tˈuː tˈɛndɚ ænd lˈʌv tˈuː ɡɹˈeɪt tə dˈaɪ wɪð dˈɛθ, ɔːɹ tə jˈiːld tə fˈeɪt; bˌʌt jʊɹ ɹˈɛstləs stˈiːd tˈɛlz ðɪ ˈaʊɚɹ ɪz lˈeɪt. juː mˈaʊnt hˌɪm ɐɡˈɛn ænd juː ɹˈaɪd ɐwˈeɪ ˌɪntʊ ðə wˈɛst ðæt ɪz ɡɹˈoʊɪŋ ɡɹˈeɪ. ˈoʊ! tˈɜːn ðə kˈiː ˌɔn ðæt dˈɪɹ buːkˈeɪ. ɪɾ ɪz dɹˈaɪ ænd fˈeɪdᵻd ænd aɪɐm ˈoʊld: ænd ðə hˈænd ðæt ɡˈeɪv ɪɾ ɪz ɡɹˈiːn wɪð mˈoʊld, ænd ðə wˈɪntɚɹ ʌv lˈaɪf ɪz kˈoʊld sˌoʊ kˈoʊld.