text_original: Or still more fair  when the dim scared night Grows pale from the east to the west   If the waters gather us home, and the light Break through on the waves' unrest, And there in the gleam of the gold washed sea, Which the smile of the morning brings, Our souls shall fathom the mystery, And the riddle of all these things. 1879. IN A CHURCH This was the first shrine lit for Queen Marie; And I will sit a little at her f
text_transcription: OR STILL MORE FAIR WHEN THE DIM SCARED NIGHT GROWS PALE FROM THE EAST TO THE WEST IF THE WATERS GATHER US HOME AND THE LIGHT BREAK THROUGH ON THE WAVES UNREST AND THERE IN THE GLEAM OF THE GOLD WASHED SEA WHICH THE SMILE OF THE MORNING BRINGS OUR SOULS SHALL FATHOM THE MYSTERY AND THE RIDDLE OF ALL THESE THINGS EIGHTEEN SEVENTY NINE END OF POEM THIS RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC THE MAIN
phonemes: ɔːɹ stˈɪl mˈɔːɹ fˈɛɹ wɛn ðə dˈɪm skˈɛɹd nˈaɪt ɡɹˈoʊz pˈeɪl fɹʌmðɪ ˈiːst tə ðə wˈɛst ɪf ðə wˈɔːɾɚz ɡˈæðɚɹ ˌʌs hˈoʊm, ænd ðə lˈaɪt bɹˈeɪk θɹuː ɔnðə wˈeɪvz ʌnɹˈɛst, ænd ðɛɹ ɪnðə ɡlˈiːm ʌvðə ɡˈoʊld wˈɑːʃt sˈiː, wˌɪtʃ ðə smˈaɪl ʌvðə mˈɔːɹnɪŋ bɹˈɪŋz, ˌaʊɚ sˈoʊlz ʃˌæl fˈæðəm ðə mˈɪstɚɹi, ænd ðə ɹˈɪdəl ʌv ˈɔːl ðiːz θˈɪŋz. wˈʌn θˈaʊzənd ˈeɪthˈʌndɹɪd sˈɛvənti nˈaɪn. ɪn ɐ tʃˈɜːtʃ ðɪs wʌzðə fˈɜːst ʃɹˈaɪn lˈɪt fɔːɹ kwˈiːn mɚɹˈiː; ænd aɪ wɪl sˈɪt ɐ lˈɪɾəl æt hɜːɹ ˈɛf