Philip and Phœbe Ware

Philip and Phœbe Ware written by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

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    Who is that woman, Philip, standing there
    Before the mirror doing up her hair?

    You're dreaming, Phœbe, or the morning light
    Mixing and mingling with the dying night
    Makes shapes out of the darkness, and you see
    Some dream-remembered phantasy maybe.

    Yet it grows clearer with the growing day;
    And in the cold dawn light her hair is grey:
    Her lifted arms are naught but bone: her hands
    White withered claws that fumble as she stands
    Trying to pin that wisp into its place.
    O Philip, I must look upon her face
    There in the mirror. Nay, but I will rise
    And peep over her shoulder ... Oh, the eyes
    That burn out from that face of skin and bone,
    Searching my very marrow, are my own.

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