text_original: July was wet,  a thing not rare   With sodden ground and chilly air; The sky presented everywhere A low pitched roof of doleful grey; With a rain flusht flood the river ran; Adown it floated a dying Swan, And loudly did lament.
text_transcription: JULY WAS WET A THING NOT RARE WITH SUDDEN GROUND AND CHILLY AIR THE SKY PRESENTED EVERYWHERE A LOW PITCHED ROOF OF DOLEFUL GRAY WITH THE RAIN FLUSHED FLOOD THE RIVER RAN ADOWN IT FLOATED A DYING SWAN AND LOUDLY DID LAMENT
phonemes: dʒuːlˈaɪ wʌz wˈɛt,  ɐ θˈɪŋ nˌɑːt ɹˈɛɹ wɪð sˈɑːdən ɡɹˈaʊnd ænd tʃˈɪli ˈɛɹ; ðə skˈaɪ pɹɪzˈɛntᵻd ˈɛvɹɪwˌɛɹ ɐ lˈoʊ pˈɪtʃt ɹˈuːf ʌv dˈoʊlfəl ɡɹˈeɪ; wɪð ɐ ɹˈeɪn flˈʌʃt flˈʌd ðə ɹˈɪvɚ ɹˈæn; ɐdˈaʊn ɪt flˈoʊɾᵻd ɐ dˈaɪɪŋ swˈɑːn, ænd lˈaʊdli dˈɪd lɐmˈɛnt.