text_original: Yes, the pine is the mother of legends; what food For their grim roots is left when the thousand yeared wood   The dim aisled cathedral, whose tall arches spring Light, sinewy, graceful, firm set as the wing From Michael's white shoulder  is hewn and defaced By iconoclast axes in desperate waste, And its wrecks seek the ocean it prophesied long, Cassandra like, crooning its mystical song?
text_transcription: YES THE PINE IS THE MOTHER OF LEGENDS WHAT FRUIT FOR THEIR GRIM ROOTS IS LEFT WHEN THE THOUSAND YEARED WOOD THE DIM AISLE CATHEDRAL WHOSE TALL ARCHES SPRING LITHE SINEWY GRACEFUL FIRM SET AS THE WING FROM MICHAEL'S WHITE SHOULDER IS HEWN AND DEFACED BY ICONOCLEST AXIS IN DESPERATE WASTE AND ITS WRECKS SEEK THE OCEAN IT PROPHESIED LONG CASSANDRA LIKE CROONING ITS MYSTICAL SONG
phonemes: jˈɛs, ðə pˈaɪn ɪz ðə mˈʌðɚɹ ʌv lˈɛdʒəndz; wˌʌt fˈuːd fɔːɹ ðɛɹ ɡɹˈɪm ɹˈuːts ɪz lˈɛft wɛn ðə θˈaʊzənd jˈɪɹd wˈʊd ðə dˈɪm ˈeɪɪsəld kɐθˈiːdɹəl, hˌuːz tˈɔːl ˈɑːɹtʃᵻz spɹˈɪŋ lˈaɪt, sˈɪnjuːi, ɡɹˈeɪsfəl, fˈɜːm sˈɛt æz ðə wˈɪŋ fɹʌm mˈaɪkəlz wˈaɪt ʃˈoʊldɚɹ ɪz hjˈuːn ænd dᵻfˈeɪst baɪ ˈaɪkənˌɑːklæst ˈæksᵻz ɪn dˈɛspɚɹət wˈeɪst, ænd ɪts ɹˈɛks sˈiːk ðɪ ˈoʊʃən ɪt pɹˈɑːfəsid lˈɔŋ, kəsˈændɹə lˈaɪk, kɹˈuːnɪŋ ɪts mˈɪstɪkəl sˈɔŋ?