text_original: The dim street lamps go out; and without even glancing at thee, A pale faced troop go home, imagining they have been happy. Angrily at his door is pounding the ill tempered laborer, Cursing the dawn that only calls him back to his bondage.
text_transcription: THE DIM STREET LAMPS GO OUT AND WITHOUT EVEN GLANCING AT THEE A PALE FACED TROOP GO HOME IMAGINING THEY HAVE BEEN HAPPY ANGRILY AT HIS DOOR IS POUNDING THE ILL TEMPERED LABORER CURSING THE DAWN THAT ONLY CALLS HIM BACK TO HIS BONDAGE
phonemes: ðə dˈɪm stɹˈiːt lˈæmps ɡˌoʊ ˈaʊt; ænd wɪðˌaʊt ˈiːvən ɡlˈænsɪŋ æt ðˈiː, ɐ pˈeɪl fˈeɪsd tɹˈuːp ɡˌoʊ hˈoʊm, ɪmˈædʒɪnɪŋ ðeɪ hɐvbɪn hˈæpi. ˈæŋɡɹili æt hɪz dˈɔːɹ ɪz pˈaʊndɪŋ ðɪ ˈɪl tˈɛmpɚd lˈeɪbɚɹɚ, kˈɜːsɪŋ ðə dˈɔːn ðæt ˈoʊnli kˈɔːlz hˌɪm bˈæk tə hɪz bˈɑːndɪdʒ.