text_original: uch the same fashion, and will soon turn into just the same kind of dust." YlSITEKS. 317 How my heart was wrung for him, with his refined face, dying for a country which sent its bayonets to stand between him and the armful of straw, with which I might have raised him above that muddy floor.
text_transcription: UCH THE SAME FASHION AND WILL SOON TURN INTO JUST THE SAME KIND OF DUST HOW MY HEART WAS WRUNG FOR HIM WITH HIS REFINED FACE DYING FOR A COUNTRY WHICH SENT ITS BAYONETS TO STAND BETWEEN HIM AND THE ARMFUL OF STRAW WITH WHICH I MIGHT HAVE RAISED HIM ABOVE THAT MUDDY FLOOR
phonemes: ˈʌtʃ ðə sˈeɪm fˈæʃən, ænd wɪl sˈuːn tˈɜːn ˌɪntʊ dʒˈʌst ðə sˈeɪm kˈaɪnd ʌv dˈʌst." ˈɪl sˈaɪɾəks. θɹˈiːhˈʌndɹɪd sˈɛvəntˌiːn hˌaʊ maɪ hˈɑːɹt wʌz ɹˈʌŋ fɔːɹ hˌɪm, wɪð hɪz ɹᵻfˈaɪnd fˈeɪs, dˈaɪɪŋ fɚɹə kˈʌntɹi wˌɪtʃ sˈɛnt ɪts bˈeɪənˌɛts tə stˈænd bᵻtwˌiːn hˌɪm ænd ðɪ ˈɑːɹmfəl ʌv stɹˈɔː, wɪð wˌɪtʃ aɪ mˌaɪthɐv ɹˈeɪzd hˌɪm əbˌʌv ðæt mˈʌdi flˈɔːɹ.