text_original: They tell you that Death's at the turn of the road, That under the shade of a cypress you'll find him, And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the goad Of pain, you will enter the black mist behind him.
text_transcription: THEY TELL YOU THAT DEATH AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD THAT UNDER THE SHADE OF A CYPRESS YOU'LL FIND HIM AND STRUGGLING ON WEARILY LASHED BY THE GOAD OF PAIN HE WILL ENTER THE BLACK MIST BEHIND HIM
phonemes: ðeɪ tˈɛl juː ðæt dˈɛθz æt ðə tˈɜːn ʌvðə ɹˈoʊd, ðæt ˌʌndɚ ðə ʃˈeɪd əvə sˈaɪpɹəs juːl fˈaɪnd hˌɪm, ænd, stɹˈʌɡlɪŋ ˌɔn wˈɪɹili, lˈæʃt baɪ ðə ɡˈoʊd ʌv pˈeɪn, juː wɪl ˈɛntɚ ðə blˈæk mˈɪst bᵻhˈaɪnd hˌɪm.