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How many times have you gone looking for a card only to find none of them quite expressed the sentiment? Well here at Classic Greetings we let Shakespeare, Frost, Van Gogh, and Beethoven perform the work. Here're some of the poems you can share by selecting a category on the right.

Sonnet CXVI
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
--William Shakespeare

Sonnet XVIII
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
--William Shakespeare

Sonnet XXXVI
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
--William Shakespeare

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Dedication of (& Classic Greetings
by Drake Raft

Ahoy there mates and welcome to Classic Greetings (aka, yet one more portal sighted and settled by the merry crew of The Jolly Roger. Within this port ye may create yer own original greetings by selecting from thousands of combinations of classical art, music, poetry, and literature. We're always fortifying and enhancing our offerings so as to serve ye better, so if ye have any requests or refinements, report them to 'Tis every sailor's duty to keep a sharp lookout as we sail on towards a renaissance.

I'm no art historian or anything, but I've always been fairly adept at enjoying a good painting. The thing is, I grew up in Ohio, and I was raised with an exalted standard and metric for judging all art. A painting is good as long as it's as beautiful as the September wheat on that last warm day of the year. I don't know if you've ever been to Ohio, but if you have, you'll know that there's always a girl somewhere in the scene, some implicit phantom of natural beauty. It might have been the one from ninth grade who was always dating the seniors, who one night during the summer's last party turned her eyes on you and said that she'd really love to hang out more next year. You barely knew her, which made the comment all the more portentious. And she looked a bit like Axl Rose.

Whenever I come across that pristine field of September wheat, whenever I see its semblance echoed within a work of art, I get that feeling again. Sometimes my best friend Derek and I are driving on by the field with the top down, talking about the eternities and philosophies that brought me so much closer to what Plato had meant than the entirety of my formal postmodernized education. We were on the way to an Aerosmith concert, driving along a road as straight as it was flat, and while the concert rocked, it's the sentiments of the conversation in the car which I shall perpetually yearn for. All was golden, with the setting sun and the wavy wheat indistinguishable in hue. Sometimes I throw in an Aerosmith CD, but it doesn't ever resurrect the depth of feeling. I can only ever feel hints of it when I lose myself in Shakespeare, and then it's not so much that I'm feeling, but it's that I'm thinking. And I say that contemporary art forms which encourage us to Think are few and far between, except for within the ports where the three tall masts of The Jolly Roger are oft sighted. . . Continued

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