text_original: Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell; Or on the records of past greatness dote, And for a buried soul the living sell; While on our path bewildered falls the night That ne'er returns us to the fields of light.
text_transcription: MID TOMBS AND RUINED PILES IN DEATH TO DWELL OR ON THE RECORDS OF PAST GREATNESS DOUGHED AND FOR A BURIED SOUL THE LIVING CELL WHILE ON OUR PATH BEWILDERED FALLS THE NIGHT THAT NEVER RETURNS US TO THE FIELDS OF LIGHT
phonemes: mˈɪd tˈuːmz ænd ɹˈuːɪnd pˈaɪlz ɪn dˈɛθ tə dwˈɛl; ɔːɹ ɔnðə ɹˈɛkɚdz ʌv pˈæst ɡɹˈeɪtnəs dˈoʊt, ænd fɚɹə bˈɛɹid sˈoʊl ðə lˈɪvɪŋ sˈɛl; wˌaɪl ˌɔn ˌaʊɚ pˈæθ bᵻwˈɪldɚd fˈɔːlz ðə nˈaɪt ðæt nˈɛɹ ɹᵻtˈɜːnz ˌʌs tə ðə fˈiːldz ʌv lˈaɪt.