She died Jan. 9, 1959.

I never knew her. More’s the pity.

Her name was Nellie Miles Paul. Included in her obituary was that she “ . . . was born in Washington, daughter of the late Suffolk and Mary White Miles, and had spent her entire lifetime in this community where she was widely known and recognized as a writer of poetry. Much of her literary work has been published and praised by critics.”

An understatement. She was a prolific writer of poetry, one who wrote prodigiously across the years. Her way with words, her rich vocabulary, her productive pen produced a bountiful body of work. She was, at the very least, the First Lady of Verse in these parts. As a lifelong reader of poetry, I believe she was as good as many if not most of those who became quite famous. I really believe this.

Would that I could share with you here in this column just enough of her work, so you could see for yourself that the encomia I wrote about her talents was most definitely not hyperbole. In more pithy language, Nellie Miles Paul was the real deal.

A feature article that appeared in “The Charlotte Observer” May 28, 1958, written by Linda H. Homer, with a Washington, NC, dateline, began “One of the rarest specimens in the human race is the creative writer who turns out beautiful material but does not try to sell it. Nellie Miles Paul of Washington is such a writer.”

Let me share with you just one paragraph from her poem titled “Little Washington”: “By the side of the Pamlico River/As it sweeps its way to the sea, There nestles a quaint little city That’s dearer than all earth to me; ‘Twas the first of the Union’s fair daughters/To claim the great Washington’s name, And we swear by our flag’s triple colors To keep it forever from shame. . .”

Would that I could reprint in its entirety just one of her poems. Alas, space limitations won’t allow for it.

So. Let me share with you just a few lines from the beginning and the end of her poignant poem, written in ’42, about her school days. The Academy once stood where the old high school (no, not “that” old high school, but the one that stood on the corner of Bridge and Second streets). That one has been gone since the early fifties.

The one Nellie Miles Paul wrote of began: “Old school-mates of mine, oft to me comes a dream/ of a day in the far away past,/When we were all children and followed the gleam/ of a light that was too bright to last. . .”

She ended this poignant piece by writing: “Of all those who once long ago gathered there,/ Just a few in the town still remain./ They’ve scattered afar — e’en to Paradise fair — And we sigh for their presence in vain;/ But maybe some day once again we shall play, When we’ve finished life’s lesson so hard,/ And the school bell has rung for eternal recess On a heavenly ‘Cademy yard!”

Her first grandchild, Paul Credle, is at this time deep into the process of putting together an anthology of her myriad poems.

Nellie Miles Paul. My Sally is one of her grandchildren.