text_original: When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals   I know what the caged bird feels!
text_transcription: WHEN THE SUN IS BRIGHT ON THE UPLAND SLOPES WHEN THE WIND STIRS SOFT THROUGH THE SPRINGING GRASS AND THE RIVER FLOWS LIKE A STREAM OF GLASS WHEN THE FIRST BIRD SINGS AND THE FIRST BUD OPES AND THE FAINT PERFUME FROM ITS CHALICE STEALS I KNOW WHAT THE CAGED BIRD FEELS
phonemes: wˌɛn ðə sˈʌn ɪz bɹˈaɪt ɔnðɪ ˈʌplənd slˈoʊps; wˌɛn ðə wˈɪnd stˈɜːz sˈɔft θɹuː ðə spɹˈɪŋɪŋ ɡɹˈæs, ænd ðə ɹˈɪvɚ flˈoʊz lˈaɪk ɐ stɹˈiːm ʌv ɡlˈæs; wˌɛn ðə fˈɜːst bˈɜːd sˈɪŋz ænd ðə fˈɜːst bˈʌd ˈoʊps, ænd ðə fˈeɪnt pˈɜːfjuːm fɹʌm ɪts tʃˈælɪs stˈiːlz aɪ nˈoʊ wʌt ðə kˈeɪdʒd bˈɜːd fˈiːlz!