text_original: _ _Then our candles burn to socket. Our pasteboard cabin grows dark. The blustering ocean, the dizzy cliffs of Devon, melt like an unsubstantial pageant. Once again, despite the signpost of the years, we have run on the "laughing avenues of childhood."
text_transcription: THEN OUR CANDLES BURN TO SOCKET OUR PASTEBOARD CABIN GROWS DARK THE BLUSTERING OCEAN THE DIZZY CLIFFS OF DEVON MELT LIKE AN UNSUBSTANTIAL PAGEANT ONCE AGAIN DESPITE THE SIGN POST OF THE YEARS WE HAVE RUN ON THE LAUGHING AVENUES OF CHILDHOOD
phonemes: ðˈɛn ˌaʊɚ kˈændəlz bˈɜːn tə sˈɑːkɪt. ˌaʊɚ pˈeɪstbɔːɹd kˈæbɪn ɡɹˈoʊz dˈɑːɹk. ðə blˈʌstɚɹɪŋ ˈoʊʃən, ðə dˈɪzi klˈɪfs ʌv dˈɛvən, mˈɛlt lˈaɪk ɐn ʌnsəbstˈænʃəl pˈædʒənt. wˈʌns ɐɡˈɛn, dᵻspˈaɪt ðə sˈaɪnpoʊst ʌvðə jˈɪɹz, wiː hæv ɹˈʌn ɔnðə "lˈæfɪŋ ˈævənˌuːz ʌv tʃˈaɪldhʊd."