text_original: There is nothing in literature more profoundly melancholy than Swift's own eloquent tribute to the mem  ory of his dead wife, written in a room to which he has removed so that he may not see the light burning in the church windows, where her last rites are being prepared.
text_transcription: THERE IS NOTHING IN LITERATURE MORE PROFOUNDLY MELANCHOLY THAN SWIFT'S ELOQUENT TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF HIS DEAD WIFE WRITTEN IN A ROOM TO WHICH HE HAS REMOVED SO THAT HE MAY NOT SEE THE LIGHT BURNING IN THE CHURCH WINDOWS WHERE HER LAST RITES ARE BEING PREPARED
phonemes: ðɛɹ ɪz nˈʌθɪŋ ɪn lˈɪɾɚɹᵻtʃɚ mˈɔːɹ pɹəfˈaʊndli mˈɛləŋkˌɑːli ðɐn swˈɪfts ˈoʊn ˈɛləkwənt tɹˈɪbjuːt tə ðə mˈɛm ˈɔːɹi ʌv hɪz dˈɛd wˈaɪf, ɹˈɪʔn̩ ɪn ɐ ɹˈuːm tʊ wˌɪtʃ hiː hɐz ɹᵻmˈuːvd sˌoʊ ðæt hiː mˈeɪ nˌɑːt sˈiː ðə lˈaɪt bˈɜːnɪŋ ɪnðə tʃˈɜːtʃ wˈɪndoʊz, wˌɛɹ hɜː lˈæst ɹˈaɪts ɑːɹ bˌiːɪŋ pɹɪpˈɛɹd.