And yet I’m sure towards the end
He knew I loved his wife,
And wonder, wonder if it’s why
He came so dreadfully to die.
He drove his car at racing speed
And crashed into a tree.
How could he have so little heed?
A skillful driver he.
I think he must have found that day
Some love-letters that went astray.
I looked into the woman’s eyes
And there I saw she knew.
There was no shadow of surmise, –
For her himself he slew:
That he might leave her free to wed
The ‘me’ she worshipped in his stead.
She whispered as she bade me go:
‘I think he found us out.’
And in her face the hate and woe
Was his revenge, no doubt.
Life cannot link us . . . though glad-green
His grave – he stands between.

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