Marie La Coste
Into a ward of the whitewashed halls,
Where the dead and the dying lay–
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody’s darling was borne one day–
Somebody’s darling, so young and so brave!
Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face–
Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave–
The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace!
Matted and damp are the curls of gold
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mould–
Somebody’s darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush his wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now–
Somebody’s darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody’s sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low–
One bright curl from its fair mates take–
They were somebody’s pride you know.
Somebody’s hand hath rested there;
Was it a mother’s, soft and white?
Or have the lips of a sister fair–
Been baptized in their waves of light?
God knows best! He has somebody’s love;
Somebody’s heart enshrined him there–
Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand!
Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay–
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody’s watching and waiting for him,
Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling child-like lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead–
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab o’er his head–
“Somebody’s darling slumbers here.”
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem works by stripping war down to a single body on a hospital cot and then refusing to let that body remain anonymous. From the first lines, the setting is deliberately plain: whitewashed halls, wounded men, routine suffering. Into that space comes one soldier, not identified by rank, unit, or cause, but by the repeated phrase “somebody’s darling.” That choice shapes everything that follows. The poem is not interested in strategy or glory. It is interested in what war does when it reaches the most ordinary and fragile human ties.
The repetition of “somebody’s darling” is the poem’s core device. Each time it appears, it pushes against the way mass death turns people into numbers. The phrase insists that this young soldier belongs to someone beyond the battlefield. The poem never tells us who that person is, and that uncertainty is part of the effect. By leaving the relationships open, the poem allows any reader to fill in the role: mother, sister, lover, family. The anonymity makes the loss broader rather than thinner.
The physical description of the soldier is careful and restrained. His youth is emphasized through details like curls, pale lips, and a “boyhood’s grace.” These are not heroic traits; they are vulnerable ones. The contrast between these soft details and the hard causes of his wounds—bayonets, shells, balls—creates a quiet but sharp tension. The poem never dramatizes the violence itself. It lets the aftermath speak.
There is a notable shift halfway through the poem, when movement stops. At first, the soldier is being carried, brushed, arranged. Then suddenly he is “still and cold.” The transition is simple, almost blunt, which makes it more effective. Death is presented not as a moment of spectacle but as the end of motion and care. The living continue to act around him, but he no longer responds.
The speaker directly instructs the reader in acts of tenderness: brushing hair back, crossing hands, taking a curl, offering a kiss or prayer. These gestures stand in for the family who cannot be present. The poem quietly asks whether such acts matter when performed by strangers, and answers by doing them anyway. Compassion becomes a form of moral duty, even when personal connection is absent.
Religion appears, but without preaching. God is mentioned as a keeper of knowledge rather than a solver of pain. Prayer exists, but it does not save the soldier. Instead, it links him to the people who loved him before the war. This keeps faith grounded in human attachment rather than triumph or explanation.
The final image of the grave marker is deliberately modest. There is no name, no dates, no honors—only the phrase “Somebody’s darling slumbers here.” This ending reinforces the poem’s central claim: what matters most is not how he died, or for what cause, but that he was loved. The poem closes by preserving that truth against the erasure of war.
As war poetry, this piece resists nationalism and heroics without openly arguing against them. It works by narrowing focus until the reader cannot escape the personal cost. Its power comes from its refusal to look away from tenderness in a place built to destroy it.