text_original: Slowly the pale mists rise, like ghosts of the sea, in the offing, Creeping all wan and chilly by headland and sunken reef, And a wind is wailing and keening like a lost thing 'mid the islands, Boding of wreck and tempest, plaining of dolor and grief.
text_transcription: SLOWLY THE PALE MISTS RISE LIKE GHOSTS OF THE SEA IN THE OFFING CREEPING ALL WAN AND CHILLY BY HEADLAND AND SUNKEN REEF AND A WIND IS WAILING AND KEENING LIKE A LOST THING MID THE ISLANDS BODING OF WRECK AND TEMPEST PLANING OF DOLOUR AND GRIEF
phonemes: slˈoʊli ðə pˈeɪl mˈɪsts ɹˈaɪz, lˈaɪk ɡˈoʊsts ʌvðə sˈiː, ɪnðɪ ˈɔfɪŋ, kɹˈiːpɪŋ ˈɔːl wˈæn ænd tʃˈɪli baɪ hˈɛdlənd ænd sˈʌŋkən ɹˈiːf, ænd ɐ wˈɪnd ɪz wˈeɪlɪŋ ænd kˈiːnɪŋ lˈaɪk ɐ lˈɔst θˈɪŋ mˈɪd ðɪ ˈaɪləndz, bˈoʊdɪŋ ʌv ɹˈɛk ænd tˈɛmpɪst, plˈeɪnɪŋ ʌv dˈɑːlɚ ænd ɡɹˈiːf.