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Show 3 L,OH)e-in-a.M.is1 3 A good while ago there began to be published In the New York Press little poems, all of the same melody though on different keys, and it was not long until the public began to understand that a, genius in disguise had strung his harp to add to the world's rhythm and sweetness. It came out in time that the new "Singing Sheik" was Post Wheeler and then whenever Post Wheeler wrote for a paper that paper was in demand. Before us is a volume of his gems. It comes from the publishing house of "The Camelot Company" Com-pany" and is entitled "Love-in-a-Mist." It is a book of poems and from beginning to end is full of the sweetest, prettiest things that have appeared in print for many a day. Perhaps it is not fair to call the author a newspaper poet, but his songs were first published in the Press, and through it the people who think first began to love him, and he is the newspaper poet of today. Not the singer of slang, and the maker of dog-grel, dog-grel, but of the heart and the soul, with a depth of feeling in his words that is seldom equaled in the rush of this busy day. Not that he cannot write on a popular subject, or on the things that make you laugh. He is as versatile as his verse is clever, but in "Love-in-a-Mist," he has sensibly chosen only his best verses, and the collection is beautiful. Prank Stanton cannot equal him, Ho-bart, Ho-bart, Kiser, and all the rest have much to wr,ite before they equal Wheeler, and he is foremost among the newspaper poets of the day. i His verse is unusual, weird, and daring in places, but the whole breathes of purity, and love. The book contains verses classified under siich captions as "Mosiacs," "Pastelles," "Pale Leaves and Lilies," and from the charm of pathos that B underlies the love notes, to8 the tender songsj of children, the book is an inspiration. Following are some extracts: ! li Coming of Bark. i II Sweet lips, sweet eyes, sweet hair with sunlight H woven B Ah, life to show me love were sure behoven! n Pale hands, soft heart, low voice, and kiss at H even Were this but all, my world would yield me heav-H heav-H en. (Ah, no! There is no night!) H To clasp no more white hands! in lovers' meet ing! -'J Mm b k'wm I T K&m I tit j ro9B ; lAimm Mir V DM Nf?4IH WM1W POST WHEELER. fei iiS O voice th'at called me from all trivial hating To feel no more still heart! the pulses beating! O kiss that lisps around me, shivering, waiting (God! God! It is the night!) There is a Little Rose Tree in My Heart. There is a little rose tree in my heart, A little pink-tipped rose tree, dear for you. Sweet bud blooms growing in a place apart, Whose patch of sky is always warm and blue. Dear let us pluck these roses, you and I. They know no canker and no thorny dart Each bud a kiss, each falling leaf a sigh There is a little rose tree in my heart. The Unlaid Ghost. We sit at the table the other and I; Between us the glitter of glass and of plate. The jest and the wine and the tale go by, Till over the walnuts the hour grows late. We smile at each other across the ferns, I'd ipiffl The gleam of the rose-shade tinges her face. 1 IRJ ujfl And something deep in me kindles and burns tj gjfi&ufl When her slim throat pulses its yellow lace. I'ifllwH Where in my brain was that ghost of a sob? J 'm' ' She? Ah never again I know! j t , JjH If only I could not see that throb, ' j X jijH Like the breast of a caught bird frightened so. ., 3' ffi Ijfl "Dead," did I say? (How unlined her brow) MvillH Dead? Ah, that is for her but I PStflM Something stirred in my heart just now 'jSPSlim Something I buried too deep to die. liiiffiftfiaB Bravo! This is as good as a play! gabfiraBi Fool! To breathe hard at the sight of a face! riliflfl But, oh to smile and the terrible way IjPUtilM Her throat will pulse in that yellow lace! l&LtHl 9 |