text_original: You, who were, in your sister's phrase, "moorish, wild and knotty as a root of heath," you grew to your own perfection 19 290 EMILY BRONTE. on the waste where no laurel rustles its polished leaves, where no sweet, fragile rose ever opened in the heart of June.
text_transcription: YOU WHO WERE IN YOUR SISTER'S PHRASE MOORISH WILD AND KNOTTY AS A ROOT OF HEATH YOU GREW TO YOUR OWN PERFECTION ON THE WASTE WHERE NO LAUREL RUSTLES ITS POLISHED LEAVES WHERE NO SWEET FRAGILE ROSE EVER OPENED IN THE HEART OF JUNE
phonemes: juː, hˈuː wɜː, ɪn jʊɹ sˈɪstɚz fɹˈeɪz, "mˈʊɹɹɪʃ, wˈaɪld ænd nˈɑːɾi æz ɐ ɹˈuːt ʌv hˈiːθ," juː ɡɹˈuː tə jʊɹ ˈoʊn pɚfˈɛkʃən nˈaɪntiːn tˈuːhˈʌndɹɪd nˈaɪnti ˈɛmᵻli bɹˈɔnt. ɔnðə wˈeɪst wˌɛɹ nˈoʊ lˈɔːɹəl ɹˈʌsəlz ɪts pˈɑːlɪʃt lˈiːvz, wˌɛɹ nˈoʊ swˈiːt, fɹˈædʒəl ɹˈoʊz ˈɛvɚɹ ˈoʊpənd ɪnðə hˈɑːɹt ʌv dʒˈuːn.