text_original: What memory fired her pallid face, What passion stirred her blood, What tide of sorrow and desire Poured its forgotten flood Upon a heart that ceased to beat, Long since, with thought that life was sweet, When nights were rich with vernal dusk, And the rose burst its bud?
text_transcription: WHAT MEMORY FIRED HER PALLID FACE WHAT PASSION STIRRED HER BLOOD WHAT TIDE OF SORROW AND DESIRE POURED ITS FORGOTTEN FLOOD UPON A HEART THAT CEASED TO BEAT LONG SINCE WITH THOUGHT THAT LIFE WAS SWEET WHEN NIGHTS WERE RICH WITH VERNAL DUSK AND THE ROSE BURST ITS BUD
phonemes: wˌʌt mˈɛmɚɹi fˈaɪɚd hɜː pˈælɪd fˈeɪs, wˌʌt pˈæʃən stˈɜːd hɜː blˈʌd, wˌʌt tˈaɪd ʌv sˈɑːɹoʊ ænd dɪzˈaɪɚ pˈɔːɹd ɪts fɚɡˈɑːʔn̩ flˈʌd əpˌɑːn ɐ hˈɑːɹt ðæt sˈiːst tə bˈiːt, lˈɔŋ sˈɪns, wɪð θˈɔːt ðæt lˈaɪf wʌz swˈiːt, wˌɛn nˈaɪts wɜː ɹˈɪtʃ wɪð vˈɜːnəl dˈʌsk, ænd ðə ɹˈoʊz bˈɜːst ɪts bˈʌd?