The pink flowers of the honeysuckle rise
Like crocuses in springtime on the green
Like eager maidens wanting to   be seen
While sunshine glitters on their shapely thighs.

Too much sun has made them over-bold
They're at risk from their own desperate joy.
For all the rain and clouds made them annoyed
They must be fertilised or  die  before they’re old.

And this same sun makes me a melting splodge
A lick of  oil paint mixed and uncomposed.
Who was this artist; what did he propose?
And will this portrait in  my memory lodge?

As flowers will inevitably die
They do not lose by hurling up their joys.
But should we  women imitate their ploys?
For we might live in shame, amply supplied.

Each child of nature   feels the touch of sun.
Some stretch out in joy while others run.
Lest you might  vacillate  and never choose
She who  chooses has the least to lose .