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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.

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The stone, icy and arid He brings it to the table, all the while a fable plays in his mind He remembers a girl, a girl from long ago His blade in hand, shining armor dawned, He charges forwards, to save the girl, He slips, falls, his heel tender, his body is ill in ability He stands up, how can he carry on? His comrade tells him to carry on. And the stone in his hand becomes the instrument, the pawn. He slowly turns it over and over, and inspects it for scratches. Yet he has no intention for the stone in need of patching. He drags the blade over the stone, even amidst its plea for relief. There in the distance is the hill, the flag to capture. Oh how he tries, his armor’s shrill screams holding him back. All the while his mind screams for him to attack. There She comes, the night mature. She hides him in her cold embrace. Slowly he sinks, deeper and deeper. Till yet so suddenly, none can see his face. His face to fades, his intent for virtuous fight fleas faster and faster. There at home, a young widow cries. The Night Mother does not forget. Here the blade comes to pass to the hands of another, another tries. The Night Mother does not regret. The stone, now whet and tasked, lay drying, the blade is well. The man who carry it now, remember all those who fell. He remembers all those, His Night Mother won’t let him forget. He holds the blade: She holds him under her spell. How can he understand enough to regret? The Night Mother calls to the fallen of the field. The Fallen gather up, Gather up the Fallen swords they wield. Where they used to lay, The Night Mother called the Standing to praybe vigilant. There, the Fallen stay. And who, who of all, could call, call the Night Mother A Tyrant? Yet, there She lay, in her mausoleum. Where there is Her Freedom? What of her fallen? Sprawled and laying in the fields. There still lay, all the tools they tried to wield. The Fallen, how they cry out. How ever will the Standing find Out? Now the man with whet stone in hand, The sword of the Fallen on his shoulder, The cry of the unheard echoes throughout the land. Even the Fallen, the Fallen buried under the great eastern boulder. How can the Standing know what the blade’s legend was? The Night Mother, She has not left a witness among the Standing Yet, He Has: the blade amid the Standing.

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The Blade: Dull, Wise, Sharp, and Forever Heard

The stone, icy and arid He brings it to the table, all the while a fable plays in his mind He remembers a girl, a girl from long ago His blade in hand, shining armor dawned, He charges forwards, to save the girl, He slips, falls, his heel tender, his body is ill in ability He stands up, how can he carry on? His comrade tells him to carry on. And the stone in his hand becomes the instrument, the pawn. He slowly turns it over and over, and inspects it for scratches. Yet he has no intention for the stone in need of patching. He drags the blade over the stone, even amidst its plea for relief. There in the distance is the hill, the flag to capture. Oh how he tries, his armor’s shrill screams holding him back. All the while his mind screams for him to attack. There She comes, the night mature. She hides him in her cold embrace. Slowly he sinks, deeper and deeper. Till yet so suddenly, none can see his face. His face to fades, his intent for virtuous fight fleas faster and faster. There at home, a young widow cries. The Night Mother does not forget. Here the blade comes to pass to the hands of another, another tries. The Night Mother does not regret. The stone, now whet and tasked, lay drying, the blade is well. The man who carry it now, remember all those who fell. He remembers all those, His Night Mother won’t let him forget. He holds the blade: She holds him under her spell. How can he understand enough to regret? The Night Mother calls to the fallen of the field. The Fallen gather up, Gather up the Fallen swords they wield. Where they used to lay, The Night Mother called the Standing to praybe vigilant. There, the Fallen stay. And who, who of all, could call, call the Night Mother A Tyrant? Yet, there She lay, in her mausoleum. Where there is Her Freedom? What of her fallen? Sprawled and laying in the fields. There still lay, all the tools they tried to wield. The Fallen, how they cry out. How ever will the Standing find Out? Now the man with whet stone in hand, The sword of the Fallen on his shoulder, The cry of the unheard echoes throughout the land. Even the Fallen, the Fallen buried under the great eastern boulder. How can the Standing know what the blade’s legend was? The Night Mother, She has not left a witness among the Standing Yet, He Has: the blade amid the Standing.