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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.

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That look of fierce disdain, nobility! That regal plume of chestnut ruddy-brown with speckled breast! No hint of weak servility besmirched the falcon's fine, imperious frown. He loved the way it sat in proud tranquility above his desk. He gazed down on the town which spread below his window with an air of brittle hope (or thinly-veiled despair). Ser Federigo was of noble stock. His patrimony took in twenty farms, with crops of chestnuts, olives, pullets, cocks, but penury now ruffed the millpond's calm. The poplar copse and barn were now in hock, low pastures sold. The nephews were alarmed! So, piecemeal, parcels, paddocks mortgaged off provided funds for gifts. We mustn't scoff to learn that Federigo was in love, and sadly, wholly, profitlessly so. Fair Monna was the delicate white dove to Federigo's clumsy clawless crow. You've met her kind. Serene, aloof, "above", while Federigo worshiped from below. She took the necklaces, which she construed (as Beauty will) as nothing but her due. Estates and tithes were frittering away, but little Federigo cared. His two delights were Monna, and the falcon. Come what may, he fantasized on lonely, frugal nights of riding into Fiesole one day, attended by a dozen sybarites, (and though she's someone's wife, and someone's mother) the bird on one arm, Monna on the other. And now to Monna. When her child fell sick, she watched in anguish as the boy declined. The fever burned. He hung between the quick and the departed, in his crisis pined for one thing only - could this be the trick to save him? What was on his raving mind was Federigo's falcon. All's not lost. She'd get the bird, no matter what the cost. Imagine Federigo's sudden joy to see her, dressed divinely, walking up from Fiesole! The few he still employed were summoned. "We must drink from pewter cups, no stint of treasure!" Pleasure unalloyed was in his grasp. "She's sure to stay and sup! So plunder pantry, bring forth soup and fish! Damn! Is there nothing for a special dish?" For once, she was approachable, it seemed. They talked and drank, and flirted with their eyes. This was better than he could have dreamed! Her thin silk dress defined her shapely thighs. The moment came. The pewter platter gleamed as it was carried in. "Here's a surprise!" The lid was lifted off, at his behest. There, trussed and roasted, lay the falcon's breast.

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Federigo's Falcon

That look of fierce disdain, nobility! That regal plume of chestnut ruddy-brown with speckled breast! No hint of weak servility besmirched the falcon's fine, imperious frown. He loved the way it sat in proud tranquility above his desk. He gazed down on the town which spread below his window with an air of brittle hope (or thinly-veiled despair). Ser Federigo was of noble stock. His patrimony took in twenty farms, with crops of chestnuts, olives, pullets, cocks, but penury now ruffed the millpond's calm. The poplar copse and barn were now in hock, low pastures sold. The nephews were alarmed! So, piecemeal, parcels, paddocks mortgaged off provided funds for gifts. We mustn't scoff to learn that Federigo was in love, and sadly, wholly, profitlessly so. Fair Monna was the delicate white dove to Federigo's clumsy clawless crow. You've met her kind. Serene, aloof, "above", while Federigo worshiped from below. She took the necklaces, which she construed (as Beauty will) as nothing but her due. Estates and tithes were frittering away, but little Federigo cared. His two delights were Monna, and the falcon. Come what may, he fantasized on lonely, frugal nights of riding into Fiesole one day, attended by a dozen sybarites, (and though she's someone's wife, and someone's mother) the bird on one arm, Monna on the other. And now to Monna. When her child fell sick, she watched in anguish as the boy declined. The fever burned. He hung between the quick and the departed, in his crisis pined for one thing only - could this be the trick to save him? What was on his raving mind was Federigo's falcon. All's not lost. She'd get the bird, no matter what the cost. Imagine Federigo's sudden joy to see her, dressed divinely, walking up from Fiesole! The few he still employed were summoned. "We must drink from pewter cups, no stint of treasure!" Pleasure unalloyed was in his grasp. "She's sure to stay and sup! So plunder pantry, bring forth soup and fish! Damn! Is there nothing for a special dish?" For once, she was approachable, it seemed. They talked and drank, and flirted with their eyes. This was better than he could have dreamed! Her thin silk dress defined her shapely thighs. The moment came. The pewter platter gleamed as it was carried in. "Here's a surprise!" The lid was lifted off, at his behest. There, trussed and roasted, lay the falcon's breast.