A.C. Moore Sonnet 3: To My Love

To me, she’s as the rowan tree;
Her eyes as pools ‘neath azure skies—
Reflecting all about her be—
Her heart, a dart which quickly flies
Into my own, pierced with desire.
Askr, Embla could not compete—
Glacial melt hails from our hot fire—
My soul is with her made replete.
As she around me spins the fates
And pulls me to her slender trunk
I am unmade, a vine conflates
Me to her flowers, and I am sunk—
No god or goddess holds more sway.
I shall be hers, now and alway.


Published by AC Moore

My goal is to one day change the world in the same way Shakespeare did: by infusing the thoughts of the human race with such language and turn-of-phrase that they say them daily, and never even know it was I who wrote it.

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