text_original: It was high noontide when I woke again, To hear fierce voices wrangling by my bed,   My father's and my husband's; for, with dawn, Gathering up valor, they had sought the tomb, Had found me gone, and tracked my bleeding feet Over the pavement to Antonio's door. Dead, they cared nothing: living, I was, theirs.
text_transcription: IT WAS HIGH NOONTIDE WHEN I WOKE AGAIN TO HEAR FIERCE VOICES WRANGLING BY MY BED MY FATHERS AND MY HUSBANDS FOR WITH DAWN GATHERING UP VALOUR THEY HAD SOUGHT THE TOMB HAD FOUND ME GONE AND TRACKED MY BLEEDING FEET OVER THE PAVEMENT TO ANTONIO'S DOOR DEAD THEY CARED NOTHING LIVING I WAS THEIRS
phonemes: ɪt wʌz hˈaɪ nˈuːntaɪd wɛn aɪ wˈoʊk ɐɡˈɛn, tə hˈɪɹ fˈɪɹs vˈɔɪsᵻz ɹˈæŋɡəlɪŋ baɪ maɪ bˈɛd,   maɪ fˈɑːðɚz ænd maɪ hˈʌsbəndz; fɔːɹ, wɪð dˈɔːn, ɡˈæðɚɹɪŋ ˌʌp vˈælɚ, ðeɪ hæd sˈɔːt ðə tˈuːm, hæd fˈaʊnd mˌiː ɡˈɔn, ænd tɹˈækt maɪ blˈiːdɪŋ fˈiːt ˌoʊvɚ ðə pˈeɪvmənt tʊ æntˈoʊnɪˌoʊz dˈɔːɹ. dˈɛd, ðeɪ kˈɛɹd nˈʌθɪŋ: lˈɪvɪŋ, aɪ wʌz, ðˈɛɹz.