text_original: Thy garden rosebud bore within its breast Those mysteries of color, warm and bright, That the bleak climate of this lower sphere Could never waken into form and light.
text_transcription: THY GARDEN ROSEBUD BORE WITHIN ITS BREAST THOSE MYSTERIES OF COLOUR WARM AND BRIGHT THAT THE BLEAK CLIMATE OF THIS LOWER SPHERE COULD NEVER WAKEN INTO FORM AND LIGHT
phonemes: ðˌaɪ ɡˈɑːɹdən ɹˈoʊzbʌd bˈɔːɹ wɪðˌɪn ɪts bɹˈɛst ðoʊz mˈɪstɚɹiz ʌv kˈʌlɚ, wˈɔːɹm ænd bɹˈaɪt, ðætðə blˈiːk klˈaɪmət ʌv ðɪs lˈoʊɚ sfˈɪɹ kʊd nˈɛvɚ wˈeɪkən ˌɪntʊ fˈɔːɹm ænd lˈaɪt.