Home » Poems » Poetry Art » Poetry Art / Greeting Card Maker

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.

Text
Layout
Background

Enter Title (Not Required)

Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required
I stand inside a ballroom that stretches long before me, it is a sitting room right now, formal chairs and setees, tall windows stretch ceiling to floor, twice as tall as a man, with velvet drapes sent from Europe to make it all so grand, floral tile across the floor in patterns intricate, gas chandeliers of crystal cut, the light dances and flits, later tonight the chairs will go and a quartet with play, men with starched collars will arrive to dance the night away with women in full hoop dresses, to lively strings they twirl, young men will gaze at debutants, fresh-faced upon the world. I sit inside a dinning room, tables of finest wood, polished silver besides my plate, nothing less would be good, the waiters in their coat and tails bring me coffee or wine, and more courses than I can count, at just the proper time, while I speak with these mustached men just arrived from New York, then marvel at the savory rue they lay upon the pork, the smell of pipe tobacco reins, the harsh bite of cigars, our women smoke their cigarettes from holders stretching far, word is they have a fine desert, that they have made ice cream, to have that in these mountains rough…they’ve really made the scene. I stand on the broad piazza, by endless columns square, at the edge of the great plateau, to take the mountain air, the broad Hudson unfolds below, flanked by green, rolling farms, true peace comes in this lofty place far above the alarms, people sit in the rocking chairs, reading their serials, penny dreadfuls from old London, the latest dime novel, though some hide them when folks walk by, appearance must be kept, let people think they read Shakespeare, I hear that brings you ‘depth,’ the gardens up in the yard, tended well for color, and nearby roses sprout along a long, arching arbor. I walk across a small meadow, gets smaller every year, way back in the eighteen nineties a great hotel stood here, a place where the New Yorkers fled before the age of flight, when they had only train and horse to see they got here right. It burned down eighty years ago, it’s neighbors shared that fate, and all I know of what stood here were pictures made on plates, that bedazzaled and gilded age long ago left this plain, a few bits of stone foundation are now all that remains, it’s images and articles, that’s where it now exists, nature has reclaimed everything...yet the ghosts still persist.

Enter Author Name (Not Required)

Move Text:

Heading Text

Color:

Main/Poem Text

Color:

Layout: TallShort

www.poetrysoup.com - Create a card from your words, quote, or poetry

Ghosts of the Catskills

I stand inside a ballroom that stretches long before me, it is a sitting room right now, formal chairs and setees, tall windows stretch ceiling to floor, twice as tall as a man, with velvet drapes sent from Europe to make it all so grand, floral tile across the floor in patterns intricate, gas chandeliers of crystal cut, the light dances and flits, later tonight the chairs will go and a quartet with play, men with starched collars will arrive to dance the night away with women in full hoop dresses, to lively strings they twirl, young men will gaze at debutants, fresh-faced upon the world. I sit inside a dinning room, tables of finest wood, polished silver besides my plate, nothing less would be good, the waiters in their coat and tails bring me coffee or wine, and more courses than I can count, at just the proper time, while I speak with these mustached men just arrived from New York, then marvel at the savory rue they lay upon the pork, the smell of pipe tobacco reins, the harsh bite of cigars, our women smoke their cigarettes from holders stretching far, word is they have a fine desert, that they have made ice cream, to have that in these mountains rough…they’ve really made the scene. I stand on the broad piazza, by endless columns square, at the edge of the great plateau, to take the mountain air, the broad Hudson unfolds below, flanked by green, rolling farms, true peace comes in this lofty place far above the alarms, people sit in the rocking chairs, reading their serials, penny dreadfuls from old London, the latest dime novel, though some hide them when folks walk by, appearance must be kept, let people think they read Shakespeare, I hear that brings you ‘depth,’ the gardens up in the yard, tended well for color, and nearby roses sprout along a long, arching arbor. I walk across a small meadow, gets smaller every year, way back in the eighteen nineties a great hotel stood here, a place where the New Yorkers fled before the age of flight, when they had only train and horse to see they got here right. It burned down eighty years ago, it’s neighbors shared that fate, and all I know of what stood here were pictures made on plates, that bedazzaled and gilded age long ago left this plain, a few bits of stone foundation are now all that remains, it’s images and articles, that’s where it now exists, nature has reclaimed everything...yet the ghosts still persist.