What is the worth of mere words, if their true meanings make no difference to what a man does?
The Good Book. Parables. 11:7. Made by A. C. Grayling (2016)

Sometimes I wonder if I’m still capable of expressing a genuine, unadulterated awe
like my daughter does. It’s like facing Wendy Beckett—whom I enjoyed watching
wander through the world’s greatest museums and art galleries, but whose attire
always left an unpleasant aftertaste on me—when the hours of my youth are no more,
and so is my conviction, yet I cling to the mores that the social inertia has instilled in me.

Perhaps that’s exactly what it means to be a poet.