text_original: Each breeze brings scents of hill heaped hay; And now an owlet, far away, Cries twice or thrice, "Twohoo;" And cool dim moths of mottled gray Flit through the dew. The silence sounds its frog bassoon, Where on the woodland creek's lagoon, Pale as a ghostly girl Lost 'mid the trees, looks down the moon With face of pearl.
text_transcription: EACH BREEZE BRINGS SCENTS OF HILL HEAPED HAY AND NOW AN OWLET FAR AWAY CRIES TWICE OR THRICE TOO OO AND COOL DIM MOTHS OF MOTTLED GRAY FLIT THROUGH THE DEW THE SILENCE SOUNDS ITS FROCK PURSUNE WHERE ON THE WOOD AND CREEK'S LAGOON PALE AS A GHOSTLY GIRL LOST WITH THE TREES LOOKS DOWN THE MOON WITH FACE OF PEARL
phonemes: ˈiːtʃ bɹˈiːz bɹˈɪŋz sˈɛnts ʌv hˈɪl hˈiːpt hˈeɪ; ænd nˈaʊ ɐn ˈaʊlɪt, fˈɑːɹ ɐwˈeɪ, kɹˈaɪz twˈaɪs ɔːɹ θɹˈaɪs, "tˈuːhuː;" ænd kˈuːl dˈɪm mˈɑːθs ʌv mˈɑːɾəld ɡɹˈeɪ flˈɪt θɹuː ðə dˈuː. ðə sˈaɪləns sˈaʊndz ɪts fɹˈɑːɡ bæsˈuːn, wˌɛɹ ɔnðə wˈʊdlənd kɹˈiːks lɐɡˈuːn, pˈeɪl æz ɐ ɡˈoʊstli ɡˈɜːl lˈɔst mˈɪd ðə tɹˈiːz, lˈʊks dˌaʊn ðə mˈuːn wɪð fˈeɪs ʌv pˈɜːl.