text_original: Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago; I Jut his feet on the hills grew weary, And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves.
text_transcription: FREE AS THE WINDS THAT BLOW WE RODE THERE THE BEAUTIFUL SUMMERS THE SUMMERS OF LONG AGO BUT HIS FEET ON THE HILLS GREW WEARY AND ONE OF THE AUTUMN EVES I MADE FOR MY LITTLE BROTHER A BED OF THE YELLOW LEAVES
phonemes: fɹˈiː æz ðə wˈɪndz ðæt blˈoʊ, wiː ɹˈoʊvd ðɛɹ ðə bjˈuːɾifəl sˈʌmɚz, ðə sˈʌmɚz ʌv lˈɔŋ ɐɡˈoʊ; aɪ dʒˈʌt hɪz fˈiːt ɔnðə hˈɪlz ɡɹˈuː wˈɪɹi, ænd, wˈʌn ʌvðɪ ˈɔːɾʌm ˈiːvz, aɪ mˌeɪd fɔːɹ maɪ lˈɪɾəl bɹˈʌðɚɹ ɐ bˈɛd ʌvðə jˈɛloʊ lˈiːvz.