A phonetic analysis of the first 3 paragraphs of 'A Child's Christmas in Wales' by Dylan Thomas, showing how stressed and unstressed syllables are used.

1. A Child’s Christmas in Walesby Dylan Thomas www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-child-s-christmas-in-wales/

2. 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.

3. 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.

4. 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.

5. stressed syllables strestsɪləblz

6. One Christmaswas so much like the other,wʌnkrɪsməswəzsəʊmʌtʃlaɪkðiʌðəbin those years around the sea-town corner nowɪnðəʊzjɜːzərəʊndðəsiːtaʊncɔːnənaʊbout of all sound except the distant speakingof the voicesaʊtəvɔːlsaʊndɪkseptðədɪstəntspiːkɪŋəvðəvɔɪsɪzbI sometimes hear a momentbefore sleep,aɪsəmtaɪmzhɪəəməʊməntbɪfɔːsliːpbthat I can neverremember whetherit snowedðətaɪcənnevərɪmembəweðəɪtsnəʊdbfor six days and six nights when I was twelvefəsɪksdeɪzəndsɪksnaɪts wen aɪwəztwelvbor whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nightsɔːweðəɪtsnəʊdfətwelvdeɪzəndtwelvnaɪtsbwhen I was six.wen aɪwəzsɪks

7. All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea,ɔːlðəkrɪsməsɪsrəʊldaʊntəwɔːdðətuːtʌŋdsiːblike a cold and headlong moon bundling down the skylaɪkəcəʊldəndhedlɒŋmuːnbʌndlɪŋdaʊnðəskaɪbthat was our street;ðətwəzaʊəstriːtband they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves,əndðeɪstɒpətðərɪməvðiaɪsedʒdfɪʃfriːzɪŋweɪvzband I plunge my hands in the snow and bring outwhateverI can find.əndaɪplʌndʒmaɪhændzɪnðəsnəʊəndbrɪŋaʊtwɒtevəaɪcənfaɪndbIn goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ballɪngəʊzmaɪhændɪntəðætwʊlwaɪtbeltʌŋdɔːlbof holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea,əvhɒlədizrestɪŋətðərɪməvthəcærəlsɪŋɪŋsiːband out come MissisProtheroand the firemen. əndaʊtcʌmmɪsɪsprɒðərəʊəndðəfaɪəmən

8. It was on theafternoon of the day of ChristmasEve,ɪtwəzɒnðiɑːftənuːnəvðədeɪəvkrɪsməsiːvband I was in MissisProthero's garden,əndaɪwəzɪnmɪsɪsprɒðərəʊzgɑːdənbwaitingfor cats, with her son Jim.weɪtɪŋfəkætswɪðhəsʌndʒɪmbIt was snowing.ɪtwəzsnəʊɪŋbIt was always snowing at Christmas.ɪtwəzɔːlweɪzsnəʊɪŋətkrɪsməsbDecember, in my memory, is white as Lapland,dɪcembəɪnmaɪmeməriɪzwaɪtəzlæpləndbalthough there were no reindeers.ɔːlðəʊðeəwənəʊreɪndɪəs bBut there were cats.bətðeəwəkætsbPatient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks,peɪʃəntcəʊldəndcæləsaʊəhændzræptɪnsɒks

9. we waited to snowballthe cats.wiː weɪtɪdtəsnəʊbɔːlðəkætsbSleek and long as jaguarsand horrible-whiskered,sliːkəndlɒŋəzdʒægjuəzəndhɒrəbəlwɪskədbspittingand snarling,spɪtɪŋəndsnɑːlɪŋbthey would slide and sidle over the white back-garden walls,ðeɪwədslaɪdəndsaɪdələʊvəðəwaɪtbækgɑːdənwɔːlzband the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I,əndðəlɪŋksaɪdhʌntəzdʒɪməndaɪbfur-capped andmoccasined trappersfrom Hudson Bay,fɜːkæptəndmɒkəsɪndtræpəzfrəmhʌdsənbeɪ boff Mumbles Road,ɒfmʌmbəlzrəʊdbwould hurl our deadly snowballsat the green of their eyes.wədhɜːlaʊədedlisnəʊbɔːlzətðəgriːnəvðeəaɪzbThe wise cats neverappeared.ðəwaɪzkætsnevəəpɪəd

10. vowelsin stressed syllables vəʊwəlzɪnstrestsɪləblz

11. One Christmaswas so much like the other,wʌnkrɪsməswəzsəʊmʌtʃlaɪkðiʌðəbin those years around the sea-town corner nowɪnðəʊzjɜːzərəʊndðəsiːtaʊncɔːnənaʊbout of all sound except the distant speakingof the voicesaʊtəvɔːlsaʊndɪkseptðədɪstəntspiːkɪŋəvðəvɔɪsɪzbI sometimes hear a momentbefore sleep,aɪsəmtaɪmzhɪəəməʊməntbɪfɔːsliːpbthat I can neverremember whetherit snowedðətaɪcənnevərɪmembəweðəɪtsnəʊdbfor six days and six nights when I was twelvefəsɪksdeɪzəndsɪksnaɪts wen aɪwəztwelvbor whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nightsɔːweðəɪtsnəʊdfətwelvdeɪzəndtwelvnaɪtsbwhen I was six.wen aɪwəzsɪks

12. All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea,ɔːlðəkrɪsməsɪsrəʊldaʊntəwɔːdðətuːtʌŋdsiːblike a cold and headlong moon bundlingdown the skylaɪkəcəʊldəndhedlɒŋmuːnbʌndlɪŋdaʊnðəskaɪbthat was our street;ðətwəzaʊəstriːtband they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves,əndðeɪstɒpətðərɪməvðiaɪsedʒdfɪʃfriːzɪŋweɪvzband I plunge my hands in the snow and bring outwhateverI can find.əndaɪplʌndʒmaɪhændzɪnðəsnəʊəndbrɪŋaʊtwɒtevəaɪcənfaɪndbIn goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ballɪngəʊzmaɪhændɪntəðætwʊlwaɪtbeltʌŋdɔːlbof holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea,əvhɒlədizrestɪŋətðərɪməvthəcærəlsɪŋɪŋsiːband out come MissisProtheroand the firemen. əndaʊtcʌmmɪsɪsprɒðərəʊəndðəfaɪəmən

13. It was on theafternoon of the day of ChristmasEve,ɪtwəzɒnðiɑːftənuːnəvðədeɪəvkrɪsməsiːvband I was in MissisProthero's garden,əndaɪwəzɪnmɪsɪsprɒðərəʊzgɑːdənbwaitingfor cats, with her son Jim.weɪtɪŋfəkætswɪðhəsʌndʒɪmbIt was snowing.ɪtwəzsnəʊɪŋbIt was always snowing at Christmas.ɪtwəzɔːlweɪzsnəʊɪŋətkrɪsməsbDecember, in my memory, is white as Lapland,dɪcembəɪnmaɪmeməriɪzwaɪtəzlæpləndbalthough there were no reindeers.ɔːlðəʊðeəwənəʊreɪndɪəs bBut there were cats.bətðeəwəkætsbPatient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks,peɪʃəntcəʊldəndcæləsaʊəhændzræptɪnsɒks

14. we waited to snowballthe cats.wiː weɪtɪdtəsnəʊbɔːlðəkætsbSleek and long as jaguarsand horrible-whiskered,sliːkəndlɒŋəzdʒægjuəzəndhɒrəbəlwɪskədbspittingand snarling,spɪtɪŋəndsnɑːlɪŋbthey would slide and sidle over the white back-garden walls,ðeɪwədslaɪdəndsaɪdələʊvəðəwaɪtbækgɑːdənwɔːlzband the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I,əndðəlɪŋksaɪdhʌntəzdʒɪməndaɪbfur-capped andmoccasined trappersfrom Hudson Bay,fɜːkæptəndmɒkəsɪndtræpəzfrəmhʌdsənbeɪ boff Mumbles Road,ɒfmʌmbəlzrəʊdbwould hurl our deadly snowballsat the green of their eyes.wədhɜːlaʊədedlisnəʊbɔːlzətðəgriːnəvðeəaɪzbThe wise cats neverappeared.ðəwaɪzkætsnevəəpɪəd

16. unstressed syllables ʌnstrestsɪləblz

17. One Christmaswas so much like the other,wʌnkrɪsməswəzsəʊmʌtʃlaɪkðiʌðəbin those years around the sea-town corner nowɪnðəʊzjɜːzərəʊndðəsiːtaʊncɔːnənaʊbout of all sound except the distant speakingof the voicesaʊtəvɔːlsaʊndɪkseptðədɪstəntspiːkɪŋəvðəvɔɪsɪzbI sometimes hear a momentbefore sleep,aɪsəmtaɪmzhɪəəməʊməntbɪfɔːsliːpbthat I can neverremember whetherit snowedðətaɪcənnevərɪmembəweðəɪtsnəʊdbfor six days and six nights when I was twelvefəsɪksdeɪzəndsɪksnaɪts wen aɪwəztwelvbor whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nightsɔːweðəɪtsnəʊdfətwelvdeɪzəndtwelvnaɪtsbwhen I was six.wen aɪwəzsɪks

18. All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea,ɔːlðəkrɪsməsɪsrəʊldaʊntəwɔːdðətuːtʌŋdsiːblike a cold and headlong moon bundling down the skylaɪkəcəʊldəndhedlɒŋmuːnbʌndlɪŋdaʊnðəskaɪbthat was our street;ðətwəzaʊəstriːtband they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves,əndðeɪstɒpətðərɪməvðiaɪsedʒdfɪʃfriːzɪŋweɪvzband I plunge my hands in the snow and bring outwhateverI can find.əndaɪplʌndʒmaɪhændzɪnðəsnəʊəndbrɪŋaʊtwɒtevəaɪcənfaɪndbIn goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ballɪngəʊzmaɪhændɪntəðætwʊlwaɪtbeltʌŋdɔːlbof holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea,əvhɒlədizrestɪŋətðərɪməvthəcærəlsɪŋɪŋsiːband out come MissisProtheroand the firemen. əndaʊtcʌmmɪsɪsprɒðərəʊəndðəfaɪəmən

19. It was on theafternoon of the day of ChristmasEve,ɪtwəzɒnðiɑːftənuːnəvðədeɪəvkrɪsməsiːvband I was in MissisProthero's garden,əndaɪwəzɪnmɪsɪsprɒðərəʊzgɑːdənbwaitingfor cats, with her son Jim.weɪtɪŋfəkætswɪðhəsʌndʒɪmbIt was snowing.ɪtwəzsnəʊɪŋbIt was always snowing at Christmas.ɪtwəzɔːlweɪzsnəʊɪŋətkrɪsməsbDecember, in my memory, is white as Lapland,dɪcembəɪnmaɪmeməriɪzwaɪtəzlæpləndbalthough there were no reindeers.ɔːlðəʊðeəwənəʊreɪndɪəs bBut there were cats.bətðeəwəkætsbPatient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks,peɪʃəntcəʊldəndcæləsaʊəhændzræptɪnsɒks

20. we waited to snowballthe cats.wiː weɪtɪdtəsnəʊbɔːlðəkætsbSleek and long as jaguarsand horrible-whiskered,sliːkəndlɒŋəzdʒægjuəzəndhɒrəbəlwɪskədbspittingand snarling,spɪtɪŋəndsnɑːlɪŋbthey would slide and sidle over the white back-garden walls,ðeɪwədslaɪdəndsaɪdələʊvəðəwaɪtbækgɑːdənwɔːlzband the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I,əndðəlɪŋksaɪdhʌntəzdʒɪməndaɪbfur-capped andmoccasined trappersfrom Hudson Bay,fɜːkæptəndmɒkəsɪndtræpəzfrəmhʌdsənbeɪ boff Mumbles Road,ɒfmʌmbəlzrəʊdbwould hurl our deadly snowballsat the green of their eyes.wədhɜːlaʊədedlisnəʊbɔːlzətðəgriːnəvðeəaɪzbThe wise cats neverappeared.ðəwaɪzkætsnevəəpɪəd

21. unstressed syllables ʌnstrestsɪləblz

22. One Christmaswas so much like the other,wʌnkrɪsməswəzsəʊmʌtʃlaɪkðiʌðəbin those years around the sea-town corner nowɪnðəʊzjɜːzərəʊndðəsiːtaʊncɔːnənaʊbout of all sound except the distant speakingof the voicesaʊtəvɔːlsaʊndɪkseptðədɪstəntspiːkɪŋəvðəvɔɪsɪzbI sometimes hear a momentbefore sleep,aɪsəmtaɪmzhɪəəməʊməntbɪfɔːsliːpbthat I can neverremember whetherit snowedðətaɪcənnevərɪmembəweðəɪtsnəʊdbfor six days and six nights when I was twelvefəsɪksdeɪzəndsɪksnaɪts wen aɪwəztwelvbor whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nightsɔːweðəɪtsnəʊdfətwelvdeɪzəndtwelvnaɪtsbwhen I was six.wen aɪwəzsɪks

23. All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea,ɔːlðəkrɪsməsɪsrəʊldaʊntəwɔːdðətuːtʌŋdsiːblike a cold and headlong moon bundling down the skylaɪkəcəʊldəndhedlɒŋmuːnbʌndlɪŋdaʊnðəskaɪbthat was our street;ðətwəzaʊəstriːtband they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves,əndðeɪstɒpətðərɪməvðiaɪsedʒdfɪʃfriːzɪŋweɪvzband I plunge my hands in the snow and bring outwhateverI can find.əndaɪplʌndʒmaɪhændzɪnðəsnəʊəndbrɪŋaʊtwɒtevəaɪcənfaɪndbIn goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ballɪngəʊzmaɪhændɪntəðætwʊlwaɪtbeltʌŋdɔːlbof holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea,əvhɒlədizrestɪŋətðərɪməvthəcærəlsɪŋɪŋsiːband out come MissisProtheroand the firemen. əndaʊtcʌmmɪsɪsprɒðərəʊəndðəfaɪəmən

24. It was on theafternoon of the day of ChristmasEve,ɪtwəzɒnðiɑːftənuːnəvðədeɪəvkrɪsməsiːvband I was in MissisProthero's garden,əndaɪwəzɪnmɪsɪsprɒðərəʊzgɑːdənbwaitingfor cats, with her son Jim.weɪtɪŋfəkætswɪðhəsʌndʒɪmbIt was snowing.ɪtwəzsnəʊɪŋbIt was always snowing at Christmas.ɪtwəzɔːlweɪzsnəʊɪŋətkrɪsməsbDecember, in my memory, is white as Lapland,dɪcembəɪnmaɪmeməriɪzwaɪtəzlæpləndbalthough there were no reindeers.ɔːlðəʊðeəwənəʊreɪndɪəs bBut there were cats.bətðeəwəkætsbPatient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks,peɪʃəntcəʊldəndcæləsaʊəhændzræptɪnsɒks

25. we waited to snowballthe cats.wiːweɪtɪdtəsnəʊbɔːlðəkætsbSleek and long as jaguarsand horrible-whiskered,sliːkəndlɒŋəzdʒægjuəzəndhɒrəbəlwɪskədbspittingand snarling,spɪtɪŋəndsnɑːlɪŋbthey would slide and sidle over the white back-garden walls,ðeɪwədslaɪdəndsaɪdələʊvəðəwaɪtbækgɑːdənwɔːlzband the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I,əndðəlɪŋksaɪdhʌntəzdʒɪməndaɪbfur-capped andmoccasined trappersfrom Hudson Bay,fɜːkæptəndmɒkəsɪndtræpəzfrəmhʌdsənbeɪ boff Mumbles Road,ɒfmʌmbəlzrəʊdbwould hurl our deadly snowballsat the green of their eyes.wədhɜːlaʊədedlisnəʊbɔːlzətðəgriːnəvðeəaɪzbThe wise cats neverappeared.ðəwaɪzkætsnevəəpɪəd