The poem opens with a question that sounds more like a sigh: who could possibly enchant me today? The speaker's head is "full of accounts," which could mean literal bookkeeping or simply the endless tallying of duties and worries. Either way, the mind is crowded and worn out, with no room left for wonder.
The second stanza turns backward. The speaker talks about a journey "home to yesterday," as if the past were a place to return to. But that place is called a "sorry peak," a nice contradiction: a high point, perhaps a moment of happiness or achievement, that now looks pitiful from here. The title, "Disenchantment," fits this sense of a spell wearing off.
The mood is quiet, tired, and a little wistful. Nothing dramatic happens. The speaker simply notices that neither the present nor the remembered past offers the lift it once might have. The poem's brevity makes that flatness feel even more complete.