text_original: The music of the scythes that glide and leap, The young men whistling as their great arms sweep, And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep, The weary butterllies that droop their wings, The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings, And all the lassitude of happy things, Are mingling with the warm and pulsing blood That gushes through my veins a languid Hood, And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud.
text_transcription: THE MUSIC OF THE SCYTHE THAT GLIDE AND LEAP THE YOUNG MEN WHISTLING AS THEIR GREAT ARMS SWEEP AND ALL THE PERFUME AND SWEET SCENTS OF SLEEP THE WEARY BUTTERFLIES THAT DROOP THEIR WINGS THE DREAMY NIGHTINGALE THAT HARDLY SINGS AND ALL THE LASSITUDE OF HAPPY THINGS ARE MINGLING WITH THE WARM AND PULSING BLOOD THAT GUSHES THROUGH MY VEINS A LANGUID FLOOD AND FEEDS MY SPIRIT AS THE SAP A BUD
phonemes: ðə mjˈuːzɪk ʌvðə sˈaɪðz ðæt ɡlˈaɪd ænd lˈiːp, ðə jˈʌŋ mˈɛn wˈɪsəlɪŋ æz ðɛɹ ɡɹˈeɪt ˈɑːɹmz swˈiːp, ænd ˈɔːl ðə pˈɜːfjuːm ænd swˈiːt sˈɛns ʌv slˈiːp, ðə wˈɪɹi bˈʌɾɚliz ðæt dɹˈuːp ðɛɹ wˈɪŋz, ðə dɹˈiːmi nˈaɪɾɪŋɡˌeɪl ðæt hˈɑːɹdli sˈɪŋz, ænd ˈɔːl ðə lˈæsɪtˌuːd ʌv hˈæpi θˈɪŋz, ɑːɹ mˈɪŋɡəlɪŋ wɪððə wˈɔːɹm ænd pˈʌlsɪŋ blˈʌd ðæt ɡˈʌʃᵻz θɹuː maɪ vˈeɪnz ɐ lˈæŋɡwɪd hˈʊd, ænd fˈiːdz maɪ spˈɪɹɪt æz ðə sˈæp ɐ bˈʌd.