Gilbert Waterhouse
In Somecourt Wood, in Somecourt Wood,
The nightingales sang all night,
The stars were tangled in the trees
And marvellous intricacies
Of leaf and branch and song and light
Made magic stir in Somecourt Wood.
In Somecourt Wood, in Somecourt Wood,
We slithered in a foot of mire,
The moisture squelching in our boots;
We stumbled over tangled roots,
And ruts and stakes and hidden wire,
Till marvellous intricacies
Of human speech, in divers keys,
Made ebb and flow thro’ Somecourt Wood.
In Somecourt Wood, in Somecourt Wood,
We bivouacked and slept the night,
The nightingales sang the same
As they had sung before we came.
‘Mid leaf and branch and song and light
And falling dew and watching star.
And all the million things which are
About us and above us took
No more regard of us than
We take in some small midge’s span
Of life, albeit our gunfire shook
The very air in Somecourt Wood.
In Somecourt Wood, in Somecourt Wood,
I rose while all the others slept,
I seized a star-beam and I crept
Along it and more far along
Till I arrived where throbbing song
Of star and bird and wind and rain
Were one – then I came back again –
But gathered ere I came the dust
Of many stars, and if you must
Know what I wanted with it, hear,
I keep it as a souvenir,
Of that same night in Somecourt Wood.
In Somecourt Wood, in Somecourt Wood,
The cuckoo wakened me at dawn.
The man beside me muttered, “Hell!”
But half a dozen larks as well
Sang in the blue – the curtain drawn
Across where all the stars had been
Was interlaced with tender green,
The birds sang, and I said that if
One didn’t wake so cold and stiff
It would be grand in Somecourt Wood.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And then the man beside me spoke,
But what he said about it broke
The magic spell in Somecourt Wood.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem captures the strange contrast between the beauty of nature and the grim realities of war. It brings together the timeless, indifferent world of the forest and the temporary, chaotic presence of soldiers within it. The poem is reflective and melancholic, carrying an undertone of disillusionment as it progresses from a magical depiction of Somecourt Wood to a harsh realization of war’s intrusion on that beauty.
The repetition of “In Somecourt Wood” at the beginning of each stanza gives the poem a rhythmic, almost chant-like quality. It creates a sense of place and permanence, reinforcing the idea that the forest has existed long before the war and will continue to exist after it. At first, the wood is described as enchanting, a place where “the nightingales sang all night” and where light and nature intertwine in a way that feels almost otherworldly. The image of stars “tangled in the trees” adds to this sense of wonder, suggesting that the speaker sees the place as something beyond ordinary reality.
But this mystical version of Somecourt Wood is soon disrupted. The second stanza introduces the soldiers slogging through the mud, struggling against the natural obstacles of the forest and the artificial ones left by war—“hidden wire” and “ruts and stakes.” The contrast between the delicate intricacies of nature and the crude, chaotic movement of the men is stark. The “marvellous intricacies” that once described the trees and the starlit sky now describe the sounds of human voices, signaling how the war has intruded upon the natural world.
The third stanza makes this divide even clearer. While the soldiers bivouac and sleep, the nightingales continue their song, unchanged, just as they did before the soldiers arrived. The forest and the stars remain indifferent to the presence of war, carrying on as though nothing has changed. The line about gunfire shaking the air is important—it suggests that war can physically disturb the world, but it cannot alter its deeper rhythms. Nature remains detached, unmoved by the human conflict taking place within it.
The fourth stanza shifts in tone, introducing a moment of quiet transcendence. The speaker, while the others sleep, imagines himself climbing a star-beam, traveling beyond the ordinary world to reach some higher understanding. He experiences a unity between all things—“star and bird and wind and rain”—as if stepping outside the limitations of human experience. The imagery is dreamlike and surreal, a brief escape from the grim reality of war. But even here, there is a sense of futility. He returns, bringing back “the dust of many stars” as a souvenir, but there’s an implicit question of whether such a thing has any real meaning. Can he truly keep anything from that moment? Or is it just another illusion, like the idea of war itself having purpose or meaning?
Dawn brings another return to reality. The beauty of nature is still present—the cuckoo calls, the larks sing, the trees are “interlaced with tender green”—but the speaker is no longer fully lost in it. He acknowledges that waking up in the cold and stiffness of war takes away from the beauty of the place. The reality of his physical suffering interrupts whatever enchantment remains.
The final lines deliver a sudden, jarring shift. The man beside him speaks, and whatever he says “broke / The magic spell in Somecourt Wood.” The poem doesn’t tell us what was said, leaving it open-ended. But this omission is powerful—whatever was spoken must have been something raw, something that shattered the speaker’s fragile attempt to find beauty and meaning in the forest. Perhaps it was a cynical remark, a reminder of the brutal nature of their situation. Perhaps it was news of death, or a bitter reflection on war itself. Whatever it was, it destroyed the illusion, grounding the speaker back in the harshness of reality.
This poem is about the tension between the eternal beauty of nature and the fleeting, painful existence of human life during war. The speaker tries to hold onto something wondrous, something beyond the horror of his situation, but in the end, reality asserts itself. The magic of Somecourt Wood is not strong enough to hold against the weight of war. The nightingales will keep singing, the stars will keep shining, and the forest will continue long after the soldiers are gone. But for those caught in the war, the beauty of the world is something fragile, easily shattered by a single spoken truth.