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.