Philip And Phoebe Ware

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

You're dreaming, Phoebe, 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.

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson was a British Georgian poet, known for his early association with Rupert Brooke and other poets like Siegfried Sassoon and Robert Graves. His works primarily dealt with the lives of ordinary people and reflected the grim realities of war. He is also recognized for his contribution to the war poetry genre, capturing the human cost of conflict with stark realism and empathy.

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

Fire

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Simple Poetry

Cruelty And Love

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Simple Poetry

The Cakewalk

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Simple Poetry

Devil's Edge

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Simple Poetry

English

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Stephen, wake up! There's some one at the gate.
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I hear the front door opening quietly.
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Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

The Maniac

I saw them sitting in the shade;
    The long green vines hung over,
But could not hide the gold-haired maid
    And Earl, my dark-eyed lover.
His arm was clasped so close, so close,
    Her eyes were softly lifted,
While his eyes drank the cheek of rose
    And breasts like snowflakes drifted.

A strange noise sounded in my brain;
    I was a guest unbidden.
I stole away, but came again
    With two knives snugly hidden.
I stood behind them.    Close they kissed,
    While eye to eye was speaking;
I aimed my steels, and neither missed
    The heart I sent it seeking.

There were two death-shrieks mingled so
    It seemed like one voice crying,
I laughed - it was such bliss, you know,
    To hear and see them dying.
I laughed and ...

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Geraniums

Stuck in a bottle on the window-sill,
In the cold gaslight burning gaily red
Against the luminous blue of London night,
These flowers are mine: while somewhere out of sight
In some black-throated alley's stench and heat,
Oblivious of the racket of the street,
A poor old weary woman lies in bed.

Broken with lust and drink, blear-eyed and ill,
Her battered bonnet nodding on her head,
From a dark arch she clutched my sleeve and said:
'I've sold no bunch to-day, nor touched a bite ...
Son, buy six-pennorth; and 't will mean a bed.'

So blazing gaily red
Against the luminous deeps
Of starless London night,
They burn for my delight:
While somewhere, snug in bed,
A worn old woman sleeps.

And yet to-morrow will these blooms be dead
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Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

Devil's Edge

All night I lay on Devil's Edge,
Along an overhanging ledge
Between the sky and sea:
And as I rested 'waiting sleep,
The windless sky and soundless deep
In one dim, blue infinity
Of starry peace encompassed me.

And I remembered, drowsily,
How 'mid the hills last night I'd lain
Beside a singing moorland burn;
And waked at dawn, to feel the rain
Fall on my face, as on the fern
That drooped about my heather-bed;
And how by noon the wind had blown
The last grey shred from out the sky,
And blew my homespun jacket dry,
As I stood on the topmost stone
That crowns the cairn on Hawkshaw Head,
And caught a gleam of far-off sea;
And heard the wind sing in the bent
Like those far waters calling me:
When, my heart answering to the call,
...

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

Cruelty And Love

What large, dark hands are those at the window
Lifted, grasping in the yellow light
Which makes its way through the curtain web
        At my heart to-night?

Ah, only the leaves! So leave me at rest,
In the west I see a redness come
Over the evening's burning breast -
        For now the pain is numb.

The woodbine creeps abroad
Calling low to her lover:
    The sunlit flirt who all the day
    Has poised above her lips in play
    And stolen kisses, shallow and gay
    Of dalliance, now has gone away
    - She woos the moth with her sweet, low word,
And when above her his broad wings hover
Then her bright breast she will uncover
And yield her honey-drop to her lover.

Into the yellow, evening glow
Saunters a man from the farm be...

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

Tenants

Suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways,
We came upon the little house asleep
In cold blind stillness, shadowless and deep,
In the white magic of the full moon-blaze.
Strangers without the gate, we stood agaze,
Fearful to break that quiet, and to creep
Into the home that had been ours to keep
Through a long year of happy nights and days.

So unfamiliar in the white moon-gleam,
So old and ghostly like a house of dream
It seemed, that over us there stole the dread
That even as we watched it, side by side,
The ghosts of lovers, who had lived and died
Within its walls, were sleeping in our bed.

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson