Jill Spargur (1907–1929) was not Sara Teasdale (1884–1933) or Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950): writers who rode the wave of early 20th literature, reaching the shore of permanent poetic reputation. A tide of new women’s poetry was rising in those decades, with many authors trying to breast the swell. And like most of them, Spargur was pulled down into obscurity by the undertows of literary history.

But she might have made it to land, if she hadn’t died so young: just 22 years old, the author of a single locally published book. Appearances in St. Nicholas Magazine and the Literary Digest seemed to promise great things, and there’s something in her precocious verse that begs for only a few more years to mature into a genuinely memorable poet’s work.