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.



Enter Title (Not Required)

Enter Poem or Quote (Required)

Enter Author Name (Not Required)

Move Text:

Heading Text

       
Color:

Main/Poem Text

       
Color:
Background Position Alignment:
  | 
 

Upload Image: 
 


 
 10mb max file size

Use Internet Image:




Like: https://www.poetrysoup.com/images/ce_Finnaly_home_soare.jpg  
Layout:   
www.poetrysoup.com - Create a card from your words, quote, or poetry
The Black Lace Fan My Mother Gave Me
It was the first gift he ever gave her,
buying it for five five francs in the Galeries
in pre-war Paris.
It was stifling.

A starless drought made the nights stormy.


They stayed in the city for the summer.

The met in cafes.
She was always early.

He was late.
That evening he was later.

They wrapped the fan.
He looked at his watch.


She looked down the Boulevard des Capucines.

She ordered more coffee.
She stood up.

The streets were emptying.
The heat was killing.

She thought the distance smelled of rain and lightning.


These are wild roses, appliqued on silk by hand,
darkly picked, stitched boldly, quickly.

The rest is tortoiseshell and has the reticent clear patience
of its element.
It is
a worn-out, underwater bullion and it keeps,
even now, an inference of its violation.

The lace is overcast as if the weather
it opened for and offset had entered it.


The past is an empty cafe terrace.

An airless dusk before thunder.
A man running.

And no way to know what happened then—
none at all—unless ,of course, you improvise:

The blackbird on this first sultry morning,
in summer, finding buds, worms, fruit,
feels the heat.
Suddenly she puts out her wing—
the whole, full, flirtatious span of it.
Written by: Eavan Boland