text_original: Where should I go? Back to the ghastly tomb And the cold coffined ones? Up the long street, Wringing my hands and sobbing low, I went. My feet were bare and bleeding from the stones; My hands were bleeding too; my hair hung loose Over my shroud. So wild and strange a shape Saw never Florence since.
text_transcription: WHERE SHOULD I GO BACK TO THE GHASTLY TOMB AND THE OLD COFFINED ONES UP THE LONG STREET WRINGING MY HANDS AND SOBBING LOW I WENT MY FEET WERE BARE AND BLEEDING FROM THE STONES MY HANDS WERE BLEEDING TOO MY HAIR HUNG LOOSE OVER MY SHROUD SO WILD AND STRANGE A SHAPE SO NEVER FLORENCE SINCE
phonemes: wˌɛɹ ʃˌʊd aɪ ɡˈoʊ? bˈæk tə ðə ɡˈæstli tˈuːm ænd ðə kˈoʊld kˈɔfaɪnd wˌʌnz? ˌʌp ðə lˈɔŋ stɹˈiːt, ɹˈɪŋɪŋ maɪ hˈændz ænd sˈɑːbɪŋ lˈoʊ, aɪ wˈɛnt. maɪ fˈiːt wɜː bˈɛɹ ænd blˈiːdɪŋ fɹʌmðə stˈoʊnz; maɪ hˈændz wɜː blˈiːdɪŋ tˈuː; maɪ hˈɛɹ hˈʌŋ lˈuːs ˌoʊvɚ maɪ ʃɹˈaʊd. sˌoʊ wˈaɪld ænd stɹˈeɪndʒ ɐ ʃˈeɪp sˈɔː nˈɛvɚ flˈɔːɹəns sˈɪns.