text_original: There grows the Tree whose summer breath Perfumes with joy the azure air; And he who feels it fears not Death, Nor longer heeds the hounds of Care. Oh, soft the skies of Seskinore, And mild is meadowy Mellaray. But sweet as honey, running o'er, The Golden Shore of Far Away. 184 POEMS OF FANCY.
text_transcription: THERE GROWS THE TREE WHOSE SUMMER BREATH PERFUMES WITH JOY THE AZURE AIR AND HE WHO FEELS IT FEARS NOT DEATH NOR LONGER HEEDS THE HOUNDS OF CARE O SOFT THE SKIES OF SESCHINORE AND MILD IS MEADOWY MELLOW RAY BUT SWEET AS HONEY RUNNING O'ER THE GOLDEN SHORE OF FAR AWAY
phonemes: ðɛɹ ɡɹˈoʊz ðə tɹˈiː hˌuːz sˈʌmɚ bɹˈɛθ pˈɜːfjuːmz wɪð dʒˈɔɪ ðɪ ˈæʒɚɹ ˈɛɹ; ænd hiː hˌuː fˈiːlz ɪt fˈɪɹz nˌɑːt dˈɛθ, nˈɔːɹ lˈɔŋɡɚ hˈiːdz ðə hˈaʊndz ʌv kˈɛɹ. ˈoʊ, sˈɔft ðə skˈaɪz ʌv sˈɛskɪnˌɔːɹ, ænd mˈaɪld ɪz mˈɛdoʊi mˈɛlɐɹˌeɪ. bˌʌt swˈiːt æz hˈʌni, ɹˈʌnɪŋ ˈɔːɹ, ðə ɡˈoʊldən ʃˈɔːɹ ʌv fˈɑːɹ ɐwˈeɪ. wˈʌnhˈʌndɹɪd ˈeɪɾi fˈɔːɹ pˈoʊᵻmz ʌv fˈænsi.