text_original: Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? Some, famine struck, shall think how long The cold, dark hours, how slow the light ; LIFE. 241 And some, who flaunt amid the throng, Shall hide in dens of shame to night.
text_transcription: WHO WRITHE IN THROES OF MORTAL PAIN SOME FAMINE STRUCK SHALL THINK HOW LONG THE COLD DARK HOURS HOW SLOW THE LIGHT AND SOME WHO FLAUNT AMID THE THRONG SHALL HIDE IN DANCE OF SHAME TO NIGHT
phonemes: hˌuː ɹˈaɪð ɪn θɹˈoʊz ʌv mˈɔːɹɾəl pˈeɪn ? sˌʌm, fˈæmɪn stɹˈʌk, ʃˌæl θˈɪŋk hˌaʊ lˈɔŋ ðə kˈoʊld, dˈɑːɹk ˈaʊɚz, hˌaʊ slˈoʊ ðə lˈaɪt ; lˈaɪf. tˈuːhˈʌndɹɪd fˈɔːɹɾi wˈʌn ænd sˌʌm, hˌuː flˈɔːnt ɐmˈɪd ðə θɹˈɔŋ, ʃˌæl hˈaɪd ɪn dˈɛnz ʌv ʃˈeɪm tə nˈaɪt.