text_original: Thou art fair as the hills at morning. And the sunshine loveth thee. But its light is a gloom of warning On a soul no longer free. The curses of gold are about thee, And thy sorrow deepeneth still; One madness within and without thee. One battle blind and shrill.
text_transcription: THOU ART FAIR AS THE HILLS AT MORNING AND THE SUNSHINE LOVERS THEE BUT ITS LIGHT IS A GLOOM OF WARNING ON A SOUL NO LONGER FREE THE CURSES OF GOLD ARE ABOUT THEE AND THY SORROW DEEPENETH STILL ONE MADNESS WITHIN AND WITHOUT THEE ONE BATTLE BLIND AND SHRIL
phonemes: ðˈaʊ ˈɑːɹt fˈɛɹ æz ðə hˈɪlz æt mˈɔːɹnɪŋ. ænd ðə sˈʌnʃaɪn lˈʌvəθ ðˈiː. bˌʌt ɪts lˈaɪt ɪz ɐ ɡlˈuːm ʌv wˈɔːɹnɪŋ ˌɔn ɐ sˈoʊl nˌoʊ lˈɑːŋɡɚ fɹˈiː. ðə kˈɜːsᵻz ʌv ɡˈoʊld ɑːɹ ɐbˌaʊt ðˈiː, ænd ðˌaɪ sˈɑːɹoʊ dˈiːpiːnəθ stˈɪl; wˈʌn mˈædnəs wɪðˌɪn ænd wɪðˌaʊt ðˈiː. wˈʌn bˈæɾəl blˈaɪnd ænd ʃɹˈɪl.