The Irony Of Verve

Glancing at a beautiful flower, 

I marveled for a few hours. 

Everyone admires its beauty, 

But no one discerns the pain of ecstasy. 

Thrilled by the manifestation of a tiny bee, 

There is a gleam amplified on her fleak. 

Allowing him to dwell on her bosom, 

Permitting him to suck her nectar till continual.

 He glides away without a dual thought, 

 Abandoning behind the damsel in her sweet fort. 

Impoverished she dawdles for his return, 

The next morning rejuvenating her beauty, leaving no stone unturned. 

He accomplishes but skims to another blossom, 

She dies inside gradually, waiting for autumn. 

This picture makes me gloomy and melancholic. 

Why is it always the counterparts endure and yet sustain?