The act of creating poetry is, in itself, the act of creating a entire world. The author, set to pounce on the blank page, writes a world where [they] rule absolutely on fate (Szymborska). The written doe bound[s] through [the] written woods on when it is written. Without the author, without the idea, the written doe would never exist; there would be no written woods for the doe to run in. Creation can also be solitary, lonesome even. While the lovers lie abed, with all their griefs in their arms the poet crafts the poem when only the moonlight rages (Thomas). It is at the most lifeless of hours when the poet breathes the most life

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