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Poem	He was my best and oldest friend. I'd known him all my life. 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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