text_original: The stately poplars at the gate Are funeral torches flaring high. The scent of wallflowers breaks my heart, The box is bitter in the sun, The poppies burst their sheathes apart And tell of rest when pain is done.
text_transcription: THE STATELY POPLARS AT THE GATE ARE FUNERAL TORCHES FLARING HIGH THE SCENT OF WALLFLOWERS BREAKS MY HEART THE BOX IS BITTER IN THE SUN THE POPPIES BURST THEIR SHEATHS APART AND TELL OF REST WHEN PAIN IS DONE
phonemes: ðə stˈeɪtli pˈɑːplɚz æt ðə ɡˈeɪt ɑːɹ fjˈuːnɚɹəl tˈɔːɹtʃᵻz flˈɛɹɪŋ hˈaɪ. ðə sˈɛnt ʌv wˈɔːlflaʊɚz bɹˈeɪks maɪ hˈɑːɹt, ðə bˈɑːks ɪz bˈɪɾɚɹ ɪnðə sˈʌn, ðə pˈɑːpɪz bˈɜːst ðɛɹ ʃˈiːðz ɐpˈɑːɹt ænd tˈɛl ʌv ɹˈɛst wɛn pˈeɪn ɪz dˈʌn.