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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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Where were you so long ago? All those eons before a tot. In some distant god’s château? No. Not there. You were not. On a shelf of surplus stock, A soul dressed up in heavenly frock. Perhaps a spirit not yet wrought, No. Not there. You were not. Then began your book of life, It’s made in volumes three. The past, the present, --- the yet to be. Will you write only pleasant, As you pen volume present? Avoiding matters to disavow, Parting life’s waves by your prow. Crashing the crest before the break, Leaving burst bubbles in your wake. What great act earns its worth, And a lasting mark upon the earth? Is that mark worth the grind, Should your labor be realigned? The train of life rolls on rails of time, And travel stops at the end of the line. When that ending word is writ, The final one that you submit. When there is no more yet-to-be, You close the cover on volume three. The tome is closed. Where do you go? To the place you were taught? To some distant god’s château? No. Not there. You are not. Your Book of Life, a mere spark, Bounded by bookends of eternal dark.Where were you so long ago? All those eons before a tot. In some distant god’s château? No. Not there. You were not. On a shelf of surplus stock, A soul dressed up in heavenly frock. Perhaps a spirit not yet wrought, No. Not there. You were not. Then began your book of life, It’s made in volumes three. The past, the present, And the yet to be. Will you write only pleasant, As you pen volume present? Avoiding matters to disavow, Parting life’s waves by your prow. Crashing the crest before the break, Leaving burst bubbles in your wake. What great act earns its worth, And a lasting mark upon the earth? Is that mark worth the grind, Should your labor be realigned? The train of life rolls on rails of time, And travel stops at the end of the line. When that ending word is writ, The final one that you submit. When there is no more yet-to-be, You close the cover on volume three. The tome is closed. Where do you go? To the place you were taught? To some distant god’s château? No. Not there. You are not. Your Book of Life, a mere spark, Bounded by bookends of eternal dark.
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