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 RECORDERS ages hence! Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior—I will tell you what to say of me; Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest lover, The friend, the lover’s portrait, of whom his friend, his lover, was fondest, Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love within him—and freely pour’d it forth, Who often walk’d lonesome walks, thinking of his dear friends, his lovers, Who pensive, away from one he lov’d, often lay sleepless and dissatisfied at night, Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he lov’d might secretly be indifferent to him, Whose happiest days were far away, through fields, in woods, on hills, he and another, wandering hand in hand, they twain, apart from other men, Who oft as he saunter’d the streets, curv’d with his arm the shoulder of his friend—while the arm of his friend rested upon him also.RECORDERS ages hence! Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior—I will tell you what to say of me; Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest lover, The friend, the lover’s portrait, of whom his friend, his lover, was fondest, Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love within him—and freely pour’d it forth, Who often walk’d lonesome walks, thinking of his dear friends, his lovers, Who pensive, away from one he lov’d, often lay sleepless and dissatisfied at night, Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he lov’d might secretly be indifferent to him, Whose happiest days were far away, through fields, in woods, on hills, he and another, wandering hand in hand, they twain, apart from other men, Who oft as he saunter’d the streets, curv’d with his arm the shoulder of his friend—while the arm of his friend rested upon him also.
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