The speaker wants to give something to a figure who is also the sun, but can't. Their heart is missing, or at least out of reach, and the reason is odd and a little funny: she is an oven. The image makes devotion feel overwhelming. You don't hand a tender, living thing to something that will bake it. There's also a hint of fear in the speaker, as if worship and being consumed are close to the same act.
The second stanza turns away from her to the trees. Seen as "an answer to the day," they stand tall and calm under the same heat, taking in the light without being burned up by it. The speaker doesn't say what the question was, which leaves the line open. Maybe the trees show a better way of living with something so powerful: rooted, steady, and quietly responding rather than offering themselves up.
The mood is quiet and wry, shaped by awe, hesitation, and a small sense of relief in the steadiness of the trees.