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.
A.C. Moore Sonnet 3: To My Love
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