text_original: YOUTH. 227 No wonder round those urns of mingled clays That Tuscan potters fashioued in old days, And colored like the torrid earth ablaze, We find the little gods and loves portrayed, Through ancient forests wandering undismayed, And tlutiug hymns of pleasure unafraid.
text_transcription: NO WONDER ROUND THOSE URNS OF MINGLED CLAYS THAT TUSCAN POTTERS FASHIONED IN OLD DAYS AND COLOURED LIKE THE TORRID EARTH ABLAZE WE FIND THE LITTLE GODS AND LOVE'S PORTRAYED THROUGH ANCIENT FORESTS WANDERING UNDISMAYED AND FLUTING HYMNS OF PLEASURE UNAFRAID
phonemes: jˈuːθ. tˈuːhˈʌndɹɪd twˈɛnti sˈɛvən nˈoʊ wˈʌndɚ ɹˈaʊnd ðoʊz ˈɜːnz ʌv mˈɪŋɡəld klˈeɪz ðæt tˈʌskən pˈɑːɾɚz fˈæʃɪˌaʊd ɪn ˈoʊld dˈeɪz, ænd kˈʌlɚd lˈaɪk ðə tˈɔɹɪd ˈɜːθ ɐblˈeɪz, wiː fˈaɪnd ðə lˈɪɾəl ɡˈɑːdz ænd lˈʌvz pɔːɹtɹˈeɪd, θɹuː ˈeɪntʃənt fˈɔːɹɪsts wˈɔndɚɹɪŋ ʌndɪsmˈeɪd, ænd tˈiːlˈuːɾɪˌʌɡ hˈɪmz ʌv plˈɛʒɚɹ ʌnɐfɹˈeɪd.