Found, five minutes ago

inside of a 1937 book of poetry called ...And Spain Sings: 50 Loyalist Ballads, which I bought online for my thesis last spring (and only just now finally read in its entirety):

A calendar page, dated Friday, April 1, 1927, with a manuscript poem, clearly of immense literary value. I shall transcribe.

Be good to
why wish me harm
why not retire to a farm
trees
and be contented to charm
Just disappear
I care for you much too much

And when you are near
close to me dear
we touch too much
the thrill when we meet is
so bittersweet

[reverse]
Day after day
your [sic] the one who is still in my [heart: drawing of heart]
though we drifted apart so
long ago

Day after
I go over the line

Night after night the memories
keep returning

Same old yearning
Love has a way of recalling
Day after day the moments
we knew
Do you think of them too
Day after day


Why are the saccharine ramblings of an anonymous poet more interesting by virtue of them being written in 1927 (or sometime between 1927 and 1937)? The calendar page takes on the sepia tinge of age, and suddenly it's an artefact, instead of embarassing evidence of a bad first draft. (I'm giving the poet the benefit of the doubt. Certainly things would improve upon revision?)