Enchantment

ENCHANTMENT

I went to look at the moon on a summer even
When winds blew softly over the ripened wheat,
Only to look at its unattainable beauty,
But the moon came down from the sky and lay at my feet.

All my being suffused with unspeakable wonder,
I held it there in my hand; its golden rays
Filled the night with a tender ineffable glory,
A thing to remember and cherish for countless days.

Knowing full well a mortal may hold such magic
Only for one brief hour, with hardly a sigh
I opened my hands--did they cling for a wistful moment?--
And let the moon return to its place in the sky.

This is the price to be paid throughout years of living,
When dark clouds lower over a weary land:
Never to weep for a moment of lost enchantment
When I held the moon like a golden ball in my hand.



The writer of this poem, Mary Pavey, was born in 1905. She taught elementary school, married a farmer, raised twelve children, and wrote poetry. Mary's unpublished work has been read and loved by her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren for over 60 years. We dearly love Mary’s vibrant and generous heart, and her spirit is fully alive in her poems. We hope that by sharing her poetry with the world, her kindness and warmth will touch those who need it.