text_original: There the wild wood robin, Hymns 3 T our solitude; And the rain comes sobbing Through the budding wood, While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more rude.
text_transcription: THERE THE WILD WOOD ROBIN HYMNS YOUR SOLITUDE AND THE RAIN COMES SOBBING THROUGH THE BUDDING WOOD WHILE THE LOW SOUTH WIND SIGHS BUT THERE NOT BE MORE RUDE
phonemes: ðɛɹ ðə wˈaɪld wˈʊd ɹˈɑːbɪn, hˈɪmz θɹˈiː tˈiː ˌaʊɚ sˈɑːlɪtˌuːd; ænd ðə ɹˈeɪn kˈʌmz sˈɑːbɪŋ θɹuː ðə bˈʌdɪŋ wˈʊd, wˌaɪl ðə lˈoʊ sˈaʊθ wˈɪnd sˈaɪz, bˌʌt dˈɛɹ nˌɑːt biː mˈɔːɹ ɹˈuːd.