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 "The chorus a poet bleeds ..." Before the tongue had cognisance of praise, Before the lungs negotiated breath, There kept, beneath all unrecorded days, A psalm surviving every little death— Not sung, but waiting, with such patient art As roots employ beneath the wintered heart. The blood possessed an elder scholarship Than all the grammars ever speech compiled. It held, in crimson covenant, the script Whereby the Infinite rehearsed the child. No eye could read it. Yet its hidden claim Outlived the parchment of remembered name. Then Visitation entered—not to mar, But as the frost instructeth April's seed: Undoing only what we never are, To husband what eternity shall need. The chalice yielded to the faithful cleft; The wine discovered more than had been left. I deemed the hymn proceeded out of me. The silence smiled and gently proved me wrong. No fountain drinketh of itself. The sea Was ancient long before the first gull's song. I was no source. I was the place made still Enough for what had always sought my will. Then came the hour no doctrine could foresee. A wound, long faithful to a single breast, forgot the grammar of possession. It crossed, without a footfall or a voice, into the hearing of the world. Thereafter no man suffered wholly lone. For what departed me returned as recognition. Then understood I what no laurel knows: The poet holdeth no dominion here. He is the interval wherein there grows A listening greater than the listening ear. His gift is not invention, but consent— The open gate through which the Unsent went. Therefore I leave no maxim after me. Only this: One evening, when the last reader had closed the book, the silence, finding no mouth remaining, Began to sing.
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