text_original: Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine Poor little hand, so feeble now; Its wrinkled palm, its altered line, Its veins so pallid and so slow   (_Unfinished here_) Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art: I shall be free when thou art through.
text_transcription: YES DEATH I OWN I GRUDGED THEE MINE POOR LITTLE HAND SO FEEBLE NOW ITS WRINKLED PALM ITS ALTERED LINE ITS VEINS SO PALLID AND SO SLOW UNFINISHED HERE AH WELL FRIEND DEATH GOOD FRIEND THOU ART I SHALL BE FREE WHEN THOU ART THROUGH
phonemes: jˈɛs, dˈɛθ, aɪ ˈoʊn aɪ ɡɹˈʌdʒ ðiː mˈaɪn pˈʊɹ lˈɪɾəl hˈænd, sˌoʊ fˈiːbəl nˈaʊ; ɪts ɹˈɪŋkəld pˈɑːm, ɪts ˈɔltɚd lˈaɪn, ɪts vˈeɪnz sˌoʊ pˈælɪd ænd sˌoʊ slˈoʊ   (ʌnfˈɪnɪʃt hˈɪɹ) ˈɑː, wˈɛl, fɹˈɛnd dˈɛθ, ɡˈʊd fɹˈɛnd ðˈaʊ ˈɑːɹt: aɪʃˌɐl biː fɹˈiː wɛn ðˈaʊ ˈɑːɹt θɹˈuː.