text_original: Flown are those days with their winged delights, As the odor is gone from the summer rose ; Yet still, whenever I wave my fan, The soft, south wind of memory blows.
text_transcription: FLOWN ARE THOSE DAYS WITH THEIR WINGED DELIGHTS AS THE ODOUR IS GONE FROM THE SUMMER ROSE YET STILL WHENEVER I WAVE MY FAN THE SOFT SOUTH WIND OF MEMORY BLOWS
phonemes: flˈoʊn ɑːɹ ðoʊz dˈeɪz wɪð ðɛɹ wˈɪŋd dᵻlˈaɪts, æz ðɪ ˈoʊdɚɹ ɪz ɡɔn fɹʌmðə sˈʌmɚ ɹˈoʊz ; jˈɛt stˈɪl, wɛnˌɛvɚɹ aɪ wˈeɪv maɪ fˈæn, ðə sˈɔft, sˈaʊθ wˈɪnd ʌv mˈɛmɚɹi blˈoʊz.