Rumored to be a deliberately lost work of Edgar Allan Poe.
The day I last saw Eleanor, It was the day she died; Though some say still she walks the moor Between the hours of three and four (I don’t know what she does it for) Along the banks of Clyde. The day I last saw Eleanor, She sniffed with wounded pride, And handed me an apple core, And told me, “Thus far, and no more,” Concluding, “Now you know the score: You will not be my bride.” The day I last saw Eleanor, She strode with purposed stride Toward the billows’ haughty roar And strode right past the pimpled shore Till she was out a mile or more And swallowed by the tide. Long since I left that cursed shore; Long since my clothes have dried. And since my story makes you snore, I tell you this, and tell no more: The day I last saw Eleanor, It was the day she died.