text_original: We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears, O'erwatched with restless longings night and day; Forgetful of the high, mysterious right He holds to bear our cherished plants away. But when some sunny spot in those bright fields Needs the fair presence of an added flower, Down sweeps a starry angel in the night: At morn the rose has vanished from our bower.
text_transcription: WE CALL THEM OURS OVERSWEPT WITH SELFISH TEARS OVERWATCHED WITH RESTLESS LONGINGS NIGHT AND DAY FORGETFUL OF THE HIGH MYSTERIOUS RITE HE HOLDS TO BEAR OUR CHERISHED PLANS AWAY BUT WHEN SOME SUNNY SPOT IN THOSE BRIGHT FIELDS NEEDS THE FAIR PRESENCE OF AN ADDED FLOWER DOWN SWEEPS THE STARRY ANGEL IN THE NIGHT AT MORN THE ROSE HAS VANISHED FROM OUR BOWER
phonemes: wiː kˈɔːl ðˌɛm aʊɚz, ˈɔːɹwɛpt wɪð sˈɛlfɪʃ tˈɪɹz, ˈɔːɹwwɑːtʃt wɪð ɹˈɛstləs lˈɔŋɪŋz nˈaɪt ænd dˈeɪ; fɚɡˈɛtfəl ʌvðə hˈaɪ, mɪstˈɪɹiəs ɹˈaɪt hiː hˈoʊldz tə bˈɛɹ ˌaʊɚ tʃˈɛɹɪʃt plˈænts ɐwˈeɪ. bˌʌt wɛn sˌʌm sˈʌni spˈɑːt ɪn ðoʊz bɹˈaɪt fˈiːldz nˈiːdz ðə fˈɛɹ pɹˈɛzəns əvən ˈædᵻd flˈaʊɚ, dˌaʊn swˈiːps ɐ stˈɑːɹi ˈeɪndʒəl ɪnðə nˈaɪt: æt mˈɔːɹn ðə ɹˈoʊz hɐz vˈænɪʃt fɹʌm ˌaʊɚ bˈaʊɚ.