text_original: They rise not from reason, but deeper inconse  quent deeps. Reason 's not one that weeps. What logic of greeting lies Betwixt dear over beautiful trees and the rain of the eyes ? O cunning green leaves, little masters ! like as ye gloss All the dull tissued dark with your luminous darks that emboss The vague blackness of night with pattern and plan.
text_transcription: THEY RISE NOT FROM REASON BUT DEEPER INCONSEQUENT DEEPS REASON'S NOT ONE THAT WEEPS WHAT LOGIC OF GREETING LIES BETWIXT DEAR OVER BEAUTIFUL TREES AND THE RAIN OF THE EYES O CUNNING GREEN LEAVES LITTLE MASTERS LIKE AS YE GLOSS ALL THE DULL TISSUE DARK WITH YOUR LUMINOUS DARKS THAT EMBOSS THE VAGUE BLACKNESS OF NIGHT WITH PATTERN AND PLAN
phonemes: ðeɪ ɹˈaɪz nˌɑːt fɹʌm ɹˈiːzən, bˌʌt dˈiːpɚɹ ɪŋkˈɑːns kwˈɛnt dˈiːps. ɹˈiːzən ˈɛs nˌɑːt wˈʌn ðæt wˈiːps. wˌʌt lˈɑːdʒɪk ʌv ɡɹˈiːɾɪŋ lˈaɪz bᵻtwˈɪkst dˈɪɹ ˌoʊvɚ bjˈuːɾifəl tɹˈiːz ænd ðə ɹˈeɪn ʌvðɪ ˈaɪz ? ˈoʊ kˈʌnɪŋ ɡɹˈiːn lˈiːvz, lˈɪɾəl mˈæstɚz ! lˈaɪk æz jiː ɡlˈɔs ˈɔːl ðə dˈʌl tˈɪʃuːd dˈɑːɹk wɪð jʊɹ lˈuːmɪnəs dˈɑːɹks ðæt ɛmbˈɔs ðə vˈeɪɡ blˈæknəs ʌv nˈaɪt wɪð pˈætɚn ænd plˈæn.