A Child’s Christmas in Walesby Dylan Thomas

www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-child-s-christmas-in-wales/

One Christmas was so much like the other, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs.Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

stressed syllables

strest sɪləblz

One Christmas was so much like the other,wʌn krɪsməs wəz səʊ mʌtʃ laɪk ði ʌðəb

in those years around the sea-town corner nowɪn ðəʊz jɜːz ərəʊnd ðə siː taʊn cɔːnə naʊb

out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voicesaʊt əv ɔːl saʊnd ɪksept ðə dɪstənt spiːkɪŋ əv ðə vɔɪsɪzb

I sometimes hear a moment before sleep,aɪ səmtaɪmz hɪə ə məʊmənt bɪfɔː sliːpb

that I can never remember whether it snowedðət aɪ cən nevə rɪmembə weðə ɪt snəʊdb

for six days and six nights when I was twelvefə sɪks deɪz ənd sɪks naɪts wen aɪ wəz twelvb

or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nightsɔː weðə ɪt snəʊd fə twelv deɪz ənd twelv naɪtsb

when I was six.wen aɪ wəz sɪks

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea,ɔːl ðə krɪsməsɪs rəʊl daʊn təwɔːd ðə tuː tʌŋd siːb

like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the skylaɪk ə cəʊld ənd hedlɒŋ muːn bʌndlɪŋ daʊn ðə skaɪb

that was our street;ðət wəz aʊə striːtb

and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves,ənd ðeɪ stɒp ət ðə rɪm əv ði aɪs edʒd fɪʃ friːzɪŋ weɪvzb

and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find.ənd aɪ plʌndʒ maɪ hændz ɪn ðə snəʊ ənd brɪŋ aʊt wɒtevə aɪ cən faɪndb

In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ballɪn gəʊz maɪ hænd ɪntə ðæt wʊl waɪt bel tʌŋd ɔːlb

of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea,əv hɒlədiz restɪŋ ət ðə rɪm əv thə cærəl sɪŋɪŋ siːb

and out come Missis Prothero and the firemen.ənd aʊt cʌm mɪsɪsprɒðərəʊ ənd ðə faɪəmən

It was on the afternoon of the day of Christmas Eve,ɪt wəz ɒn ði ɑːftənuːn əv ðə deɪ əv krɪsməs iːvb

and I was in Missis Prothero's garden,ənd aɪ wəz ɪn mɪsɪs prɒðərəʊz gɑːdənb

waiting for cats, with her son Jim.weɪtɪŋ fə kæts wɪð hə sʌn dʒɪmb

It was snowing.ɪt wəz snəʊɪŋb

It was always snowing at Christmas.ɪt wəz ɔːlweɪz snəʊɪŋ ət krɪsməsb

December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,dɪcembə ɪn maɪ meməri ɪz waɪt əz læpləndb

although there were no reindeers.ɔːlðəʊ ðeə wə nəʊ reɪndɪəsbBut there were cats.bət ðeə wə kætsb

Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks,peɪʃənt cəʊld ənd cæləs aʊə hændz ræpt ɪn sɒks

we waited to snowball the cats.wiː weɪtɪd tə snəʊbɔːl ðə kætsb

Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered,sliːk ənd lɒŋ əz dʒægjuəz ənd hɒrəbəl wɪskədb

spitting and snarling,spɪtɪŋ ənd snɑːlɪŋb

they would slide and sidle over the white back-garden walls,ðeɪ wəd slaɪd ənd saɪdəl əʊvə ðə waɪt bæk gɑːdən wɔːlzb

and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I,ənd ðə lɪŋks aɪd hʌntəz dʒɪm ənd aɪb

fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay,fɜː kæpt ənd mɒkəsɪnd træpəz frəm hʌdsən beɪboff Mumbles Road,ɒf mʌmbəlz rəʊdb

would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes.wəd hɜːl aʊə dedli snəʊbɔːlz ət ðə griːn əv ðeə aɪzb

The wise cats never appeared.ðə waɪz kæts nevə əpɪəd

vowels in stressed syllables

vəʊwəlz ɪn strest sɪləblz

One Christmas was so much like the other,wʌn krɪsməs wəz səʊ mʌtʃ laɪk ði ʌðəb

in those years around the sea-town corner nowɪn ðəʊz jɜːz ərəʊnd ðə siː taʊn cɔːnə naʊb

out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voicesaʊt əv ɔːl saʊnd ɪksept ðə dɪstənt spiːkɪŋ əv ðə vɔɪsɪzb

I sometimes hear a moment before sleep,aɪ səmtaɪmz hɪə ə məʊmənt bɪfɔː sliːpb

that I can never remember whether it snowedðət aɪ cən nevə rɪmembə weðə ɪt snəʊdb

for six days and six nights when I was twelvefə sɪks deɪz ənd sɪks naɪts wen aɪ wəz twelvb

or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nightsɔː weðə ɪt snəʊd fə twelv deɪz ənd twelv naɪtsb

when I was six.wen aɪ wəz sɪks

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea,ɔːl ðə krɪsməsɪs rəʊl daʊn təwɔːd ðə tuː tʌŋd siːb

like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the skylaɪk ə cəʊld ənd hedlɒŋ muːn bʌndlɪŋ daʊn ðə skaɪb

that was our street;ðət wəz aʊə striːtb

and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves,ənd ðeɪ stɒp ət ðə rɪm əv ði aɪs edʒd fɪʃ friːzɪŋ weɪvzb

and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find.ənd aɪ plʌndʒ maɪ hændz ɪn ðə snəʊ ənd brɪŋ aʊt wɒtevə aɪ cən faɪndb

In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ballɪn gəʊz maɪ hænd ɪntə ðæt wʊl waɪt bel tʌŋd ɔːlb

of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea,əv hɒlədiz restɪŋ ət ðə rɪm əv thə cærəl sɪŋɪŋ siːb

and out come Missis Prothero and the firemen.ənd aʊt cʌm mɪsɪsprɒðərəʊ ənd ðə faɪəmən

It was on the afternoon of the day of Christmas Eve,ɪt wəz ɒn ði ɑːftənuːn əv ðə deɪ əv krɪsməs iːvb

and I was in Missis Prothero's garden,ənd aɪ wəz ɪn mɪsɪs prɒðərəʊz gɑːdənb

waiting for cats, with her son Jim.weɪtɪŋ fə kæts wɪð hə sʌn dʒɪmb

It was snowing.ɪt wəz snəʊɪŋb

It was always snowing at Christmas.ɪt wəz ɔːlweɪz snəʊɪŋ ət krɪsməsb

December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,dɪcembə ɪn maɪ meməri ɪz waɪt əz læpləndb

although there were no reindeers.ɔːlðəʊ ðeə wə nəʊ reɪndɪəsbBut there were cats.bət ðeə wə kætsb

Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks,peɪʃənt cəʊld ənd cæləs aʊə hændz ræpt ɪn sɒks

we waited to snowball the cats.wiː weɪtɪd tə snəʊbɔːl ðə kætsb

Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered,sliːk ənd lɒŋ əz dʒægjuəz ənd hɒrəbəl wɪskədb

spitting and snarling,spɪtɪŋ ənd snɑːlɪŋb

they would slide and sidle over the white back-garden walls,ðeɪ wəd slaɪd ənd saɪdəl əʊvə ðə waɪt bæk gɑːdən wɔːlzb

and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I,ənd ðə lɪŋks aɪd hʌntəz dʒɪm ənd aɪb

fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay,fɜː kæpt ənd mɒkəsɪnd træpəz frəm hʌdsən beɪboff Mumbles Road,ɒf mʌmbəlz rəʊdb

would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes.wəd hɜːl aʊə dedli snəʊbɔːlz ət ðə griːn əv ðeə aɪzb

The wise cats never appeared.ðə waɪz kæts nevə əpɪəd

ɪ 21 ɑː 3

əʊ 20 ɜː 3

e 17 uː 3

aɪ 17 ɪə 2

æ 16 ʊ 1

ʌ 12 ɔɪ 1

iː 10 eə 0

eɪ 9 ʊə 0

aʊ 9 u 0

ɔː 8 i 0

ɒ 6 ə -

unstressed syllables

ʌnstrest sɪləblz

One Christmas was so much like the other,wʌn krɪsməs wəz səʊ mʌtʃ laɪk ði ʌðəb

in those years around the sea-town corner nowɪn ðəʊz jɜːz ərəʊnd ðə siː taʊn cɔːnə naʊb

out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voicesaʊt əv ɔːl saʊnd ɪksept ðə dɪstənt spiːkɪŋ əv ðə vɔɪsɪzb

I sometimes hear a moment before sleep,aɪ səmtaɪmz hɪə ə məʊmənt bɪfɔː sliːpb

that I can never remember whether it snowedðət aɪ cən nevə rɪmembə weðə ɪt snəʊdb

for six days and six nights when I was twelvefə sɪks deɪz ənd sɪks naɪts wen aɪ wəz twelvb

or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nightsɔː weðə ɪt snəʊd fə twelv deɪz ənd twelv naɪtsb

when I was six.wen aɪ wəz sɪks

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea,ɔːl ðə krɪsməsɪs rəʊl daʊn təwɔːd ðə tuː tʌŋd siːb

like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the skylaɪk ə cəʊld ənd hedlɒŋ muːn bʌndlɪŋ daʊn ðə skaɪb

that was our street;ðət wəz aʊə striːtb

and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves,ənd ðeɪ stɒp ət ðə rɪm əv ði aɪs edʒd fɪʃ friːzɪŋ weɪvzb

and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find.ənd aɪ plʌndʒ maɪ hændz ɪn ðə snəʊ ənd brɪŋ aʊt wɒtevə aɪ cən faɪndb

In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ballɪn gəʊz maɪ hænd ɪntə ðæt wʊl waɪt bel tʌŋd ɔːlb

of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea,əv hɒlədiz restɪŋ ət ðə rɪm əv thə cærəl sɪŋɪŋ siːb

and out come Missis Prothero and the firemen.ənd aʊt cʌm mɪsɪsprɒðərəʊ ənd ðə faɪəmən

It was on the afternoon of the day of Christmas Eve,ɪt wəz ɒn ði ɑːftənuːn əv ðə deɪ əv krɪsməs iːvb

and I was in Missis Prothero's garden,ənd aɪ wəz ɪn mɪsɪs prɒðərəʊz gɑːdənb

waiting for cats, with her son Jim.weɪtɪŋ fə kæts wɪð hə sʌn dʒɪmb

It was snowing.ɪt wəz snəʊɪŋb

It was always snowing at Christmas.ɪt wəz ɔːlweɪz snəʊɪŋ ət krɪsməsb

December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,dɪcembə ɪn maɪ meməri ɪz waɪt əz læpləndb

although there were no reindeers.ɔːlðəʊ ðeə wə nəʊ reɪndɪəsbBut there were cats.bət ðeə wə kætsb

Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks,peɪʃənt cəʊld ənd cæləs aʊə hændz ræpt ɪn sɒks

we waited to snowball the cats.wiː weɪtɪd tə snəʊbɔːl ðə kætsb

Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered,sliːk ənd lɒŋ əz dʒægjuəz ənd hɒrəbəl wɪskədb

spitting and snarling,spɪtɪŋ ənd snɑːlɪŋb

they would slide and sidle over the white back-garden walls,ðeɪ wəd slaɪd ənd saɪdəl əʊvə ðə waɪt bæk gɑːdən wɔːlzb

and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I,ənd ðə lɪŋks aɪd hʌntəz dʒɪm ənd aɪb

fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay,fɜː kæpt ənd mɒkəsɪnd træpəz frəm hʌdsən beɪboff Mumbles Road,ɒf mʌmbəlz rəʊdb

would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes.wəd hɜːl aʊə dedli snəʊbɔːlz ət ðə griːn əv ðeə aɪzb

The wise cats never appeared.ðə waɪz kæts nevə əpɪəd

unstressed syllables

ʌnstrest sɪləblz

One Christmas was so much like the other,wʌn krɪsməs wəz səʊ mʌtʃ laɪk ði ʌðəb

in those years around the sea-town corner nowɪn ðəʊz jɜːz ərəʊnd ðə siː taʊn cɔːnə naʊb

out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voicesaʊt əv ɔːl saʊnd ɪksept ðə dɪstənt spiːkɪŋ əv ðə vɔɪsɪzb

I sometimes hear a moment before sleep,aɪ səmtaɪmz hɪə ə məʊmənt bɪfɔː sliːpb

that I can never remember whether it snowedðət aɪ cən nevə rɪmembə weðə ɪt snəʊdb

for six days and six nights when I was twelvefə sɪks deɪz ənd sɪks naɪts wen aɪ wəz twelvb

or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nightsɔː weðə ɪt snəʊd fə twelv deɪz ənd twelv naɪtsb

when I was six.wen aɪ wəz sɪks

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea,ɔːl ðə krɪsməsɪs rəʊl daʊn təwɔːd ðə tuː tʌŋd siːb

like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the skylaɪk ə cəʊld ənd hedlɒŋ muːn bʌndlɪŋ daʊn ðə skaɪb

that was our street;ðət wəz aʊə striːtb

and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves,ənd ðeɪ stɒp ət ðə rɪm əv ði aɪs edʒd fɪʃ friːzɪŋ weɪvzb

and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find.ənd aɪ plʌndʒ maɪ hændz ɪn ðə snəʊ ənd brɪŋ aʊt wɒtevə aɪ cən faɪndb

In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ballɪn gəʊz maɪ hænd ɪntə ðæt wʊl waɪt bel tʌŋd ɔːlb

of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea,əv hɒlədiz restɪŋ ət ðə rɪm əv thə cærəl sɪŋɪŋ siːb

and out come Missis Prothero and the firemen.ənd aʊt cʌm mɪsɪsprɒðərəʊ ənd ðə faɪəmən

It was on the afternoon of the day of Christmas Eve,ɪt wəz ɒn ði ɑːftənuːn əv ðə deɪ əv krɪsməs iːvb

and I was in Missis Prothero's garden,ənd aɪ wəz ɪn mɪsɪs prɒðərəʊz gɑːdənb

waiting for cats, with her son Jim.weɪtɪŋ fə kæts wɪð hə sʌn dʒɪmb

It was snowing.ɪt wəz snəʊɪŋb

It was always snowing at Christmas.ɪt wəz ɔːlweɪz snəʊɪŋ ət krɪsməsb

December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,dɪcembə ɪn maɪ meməri ɪz waɪt əz læpləndb

although there were no reindeers.ɔːlðəʊ ðeə wə nəʊ reɪndɪəsbBut there were cats.bət ðeə wə kætsb

Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks,peɪʃənt cəʊld ənd cæləs aʊə hændz ræpt ɪn sɒks

we waited to snowball the cats.wiː weɪtɪd tə snəʊbɔːl ðə kætsb

Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered,sliːk ənd lɒŋ əz dʒægjuəz ənd hɒrəbəl wɪskədb

spitting and snarling,spɪtɪŋ ənd snɑːlɪŋb

they would slide and sidle over the white back-garden walls,ðeɪ wəd slaɪd ənd saɪdəl əʊvə ðə waɪt bæk gɑːdən wɔːlzb

and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I,ənd ðə lɪŋks aɪd hʌntəz dʒɪm ənd aɪb

fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay,fɜː kæpt ənd mɒkəsɪnd træpəz frəm hʌdsən beɪboff Mumbles Road,ɒf mʌmbəlz rəʊdb

would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes.wəd hɜːl aʊə dedli snəʊbɔːlz ət ðə griːn əv ðeə aɪzb

The wise cats never appeared.ðə waɪz kæts nevə əpɪəd

ə 119 aɪ 11

ɪ 34 ɒ 6

i 6

ɔː 4

eɪ 3

eə 3

e 2

aʊ 2

others 5

143 42

= 77% = 23%