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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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He'd come west back in forty-nine, three long years had passed since that time, and still he mucked 'bout rivers cold, with pan and shovel, seeking gold. Fa away from Sutter's Mill, he'd staked a claim below this hill, a bit far from the beaten track, the others said that brains he lacked. But he continued at his task, the well-known streams had gone bust fast, so he'd chosen to go afar, out here with cougars, grizzlly bars. They saw honest work hurts no man, so he shovelled dirt in the pan, and when he found no golden gleam methodically he moved up stream. The sun was up, it was near noon, the heat of it could cause a swoon, he though it time to stop for lunch, but kept going, he had a hunch. So he shoveled in some more dirt, with stream water began to work, mud washed away, and he did find six flakes that brightly yellow shined. Like that all thought of food was gone, the prospector dug on and on, he did not tire, he did not flag, thirty flakes soon in his poke bag. When the sun started getting low he took his shovel, gear to stow, planning to head back to his camp, when from the woods out stepped a tramp. His clothes were rough, his face unshaven, he features vicious, young of ago, a hardened man, raw-boned and tall, held a revolver, cap-and-ball. “All that gold that you found today... take that poke bag, toss it this way--” Then silenced by a mighty blow, the shovel had been swiftly thrown! The 49er, frantically, has struck and knocked out half his teeth! The tramp fell right there to the ground, as prospector's boot heel rained down. First came a sickening cry, then muffled screams as the tramp died, the 49er soon collapsed, his panicked breath still coming fast. He took the time to wipe back tears, his reason burning through the fear, he had been well within his rights, but still...he'd killed a man this night. He rolled the corpse into the flow, the current took it far below. Tossed all that night, he couldn't sleep, thinking on life, twas so damn cheap. That one would kill you for a rock... but in the end, when he took stock, when did life not bring with it pain? He would stay and defend his claim.

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The 49er Strikes

He'd come west back in forty-nine, three long years had passed since that time, and still he mucked 'bout rivers cold, with pan and shovel, seeking gold. Fa away from Sutter's Mill, he'd staked a claim below this hill, a bit far from the beaten track, the others said that brains he lacked. But he continued at his task, the well-known streams had gone bust fast, so he'd chosen to go afar, out here with cougars, grizzlly bars. They saw honest work hurts no man, so he shovelled dirt in the pan, and when he found no golden gleam methodically he moved up stream. The sun was up, it was near noon, the heat of it could cause a swoon, he though it time to stop for lunch, but kept going, he had a hunch. So he shoveled in some more dirt, with stream water began to work, mud washed away, and he did find six flakes that brightly yellow shined. Like that all thought of food was gone, the prospector dug on and on, he did not tire, he did not flag, thirty flakes soon in his poke bag. When the sun started getting low he took his shovel, gear to stow, planning to head back to his camp, when from the woods out stepped a tramp. His clothes were rough, his face unshaven, he features vicious, young of ago, a hardened man, raw-boned and tall, held a revolver, cap-and-ball. “All that gold that you found today... take that poke bag, toss it this way--” Then silenced by a mighty blow, the shovel had been swiftly thrown! The 49er, frantically, has struck and knocked out half his teeth! The tramp fell right there to the ground, as prospector's boot heel rained down. First came a sickening cry, then muffled screams as the tramp died, the 49er soon collapsed, his panicked breath still coming fast. He took the time to wipe back tears, his reason burning through the fear, he had been well within his rights, but still...he'd killed a man this night. He rolled the corpse into the flow, the current took it far below. Tossed all that night, he couldn't sleep, thinking on life, twas so damn cheap. That one would kill you for a rock... but in the end, when he took stock, when did life not bring with it pain? He would stay and defend his claim.