text_original: Each breeze brings scents of hill heaped hay; And now an owlet, far away, Cries twice or thrice, "Twohoo;" And cool dim moths of mottled gray Flit through the dew.
text_transcription: EACH BREEZE BRINGS SCENTS OF HILL HEAPED HAY AND NOW AN OWLET FAR AWAY CRIES TWICE OR THRICE TOO OO AND COOL DIM MOTHS OF MOTTLED GRAY FLIT THROUGH THE DEW
phonemes: ˈiːtʃ bɹˈiːz bɹˈɪŋz sˈɛnts ʌv hˈɪl hˈiːpt hˈeɪ; ænd nˈaʊ ɐn ˈaʊlɪt, fˈɑːɹ ɐwˈeɪ, kɹˈaɪz twˈaɪs ɔːɹ θɹˈaɪs, "tˈuːhuː;" ænd kˈuːl dˈɪm mˈɑːθs ʌv mˈɑːɾəld ɡɹˈeɪ flˈɪt θɹuː ðə dˈuː.