last evening i was reading ’Geetanjali’ by Tagore ("Song offerings”, translations) and here is something which I read that reminded me of a translation published over here… the context varies

Flower

Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it
droop and drop into the dust.

I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of pain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am aware, and the time of offering go by.

Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy service and pluck it while there is time.