Classic Poem

I wonder how long it has been
Since this old calendar hung here,
With my birthday date upon it,
Nothing else—not a word of writing—
Not a mark of any hand.

Perhaps it was my father
Who left it thus
For me to see.

Perhaps my mother
Smiled as she saw it;
But in later years did not smile.

If I could tear it down,
From the wall
Somehow
I would be content.
But I am afraid, as a little child, to touch it.