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 Now is the time for mirth, Nor cheek or tongue be dumb; For with the flow'ry earth The golden pomp is come. The golden pomp is come; For now each tree does wear, Made of her pap and gum, Rich beads of amber here. Now reigns the rose, and now Th' Arabian dew besmears My uncontrolled brow And my retorted hairs. Homer, this health to thee, In sack of such a kind That it would make thee see Though thou wert ne'er so blind. Next, Virgil I'll call forth To pledge this second health In wine, whose each cup's worth An Indian commonwealth. A goblet next I'll drink To Ovid, and suppose, Made he the pledge, he'd think The world had all one nose. Then this immensive cup Of aromatic wine, Catullus, I quaff up To that terse muse of thine. Wild I am now with heat; O Bacchus! cool thy rays! Or frantic, I shall eat Thy thyrse, and bite the bays. Round, round the roof does run; And being ravish'd thus, Come, I will drink a tun To my Propertius. Now, to Tibullus, next, This flood I drink to thee; But stay, I see a text That this presents to me. Behold, Tibullus lies Here burnt, whose small return Of ashes scarce suffice To fill a little urn. Trust to good verses then; They only will aspire, When pyramids, as men, Are lost i' th' funeral fire. And when all bodies meet, In Lethe to be drown'd, Then only numbers sweet With endless life are crown'd.
Enter Author Name (Not Required)