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.
Enter Title (Not Required)
Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required In the warm yellow smile of the morning, She stands at the lattice pane, And watches the strong young binders Stride down to the fields of grain. And she counts them over and over As they pass her cottage door: Are they six, she counts them seven; Are they seven, she counts one more. When the sun swings high in the heavens, And the reapers go shouting home, She calls to the household, saying, 'Make haste! for the binders have come And Johnnie will want his dinner - He was always a hungry child'; And they answer, 'Yes, it ia waiting'; Then tell you, 'Her brain is wild.' Again, in the hush of the evening, When the work of the day is done, And the binders go singing homeward In the last red rays of the sun, She will sit at the threshold waiting, And with her withered face lights with joy: 'Come, Johnnie, ' she says, as they pass her, 'Come into the house, my boy.' Five summers ago her Johnnie Went out in the smile of the morn, Singing across the meadow, Striding down through the corn - He towered above the binders, Walking on either side, And the mother's heart within her Swelled with exultant pride. For he was the light of the household - His brown eyes were wells of truth, And his face was the face of the morning, Lit with its pure, fresh youth, And his song rang out from the hilltops Like the mellow blast of a horn, And he strode o'er the fresh shorn meadows, And down through the rows of corn. But hushed were the voices of singing, Hushed by the presence of death, As back to the cottage they bore him - In the noontide's scorching breath, For the heat of the sun had slain him, Had smitten the heart in his breast, And he who towered above them Lay lower than all the rest. The grain grows ripe in the sunshine, And the summers ebb and flow, And the binders stride to their labour And sing as they come and go; But never again from the hilltops Echoes the voice like a horn; Never up from the meadows, Never back from the corn. Yet the poor, crazed brain of the mother Fancies him always near; She is blest in her strange delusion, For she knoweth no pain nor fear, And always she counts the binders As they pass by her cottage door; Are they six, she counts them seven; Are they seven, she counts one more.
Enter Author Name (Not Required)