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.


  1. The Shadow says:

    Shall I again see Eleanor?
    Quoth the raven, “Nevermore”.

  2. David Tisdale says:

    So, our dear EAP was the fiancée of said Eleanor? Rather lends credence to the story told by my father that said our poet was despatched from West Point when he showed up for work wearing “crossed belts and gloves” and only those.

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