The Calendar in the Attic

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.