POSTSCRIPT, 1887 by James Russell Lowell: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
Written when Lowell was nearing seventy, this poem serves as a letter to his old friend George William Curtis, reviving verses he had set aside thirteen years prior and sharing them as a gesture of connection across time.
The poem
Curtis, so wrote I thirteen years ago, Tost it unfinished by, and left it so; Found lately, I have pieced it out, or tried, Since time for callid juncture was denied. Some of the verses pleased me, it is true, And still were pertinent,--those honoring you. 200 These now I offer: take them, if you will, Like the old hand-grasp, when at Shady Hill We met, or Staten Island, in the days When life was its own spur, nor needed praise. If once you thought me rash, no longer fear; Past my next milestone waits my seventieth year. I mount no longer when the trumpets call; My battle-harness idles on the wall, The spider's castle, camping-ground of dust, Not without dints, and all in front, I trust. 210 Shivering sometimes it calls me as it hears Afar the charge's tramp and clash of spears; But 'tis such murmur only as might be The sea-shell's lost tradition of the sea, That makes me muse and wonder Where? and When? While from my cliff I watch the waves of men That climb to break midway their seeming gain, And think it triumph if they shake their chain. Little I ask of Fate; will she refuse Some days of reconcilement with the Muse? 220 I take my reed again and blow it free Of dusty silence, murmuring, 'Sing to me!' And, as its stops my curious touch retries, The stir of earlier instincts I surprise,-- Instincts, if less imperious, yet more strong, And happy in the toil that ends with song. Home am I come: not, as I hoped might be, To the old haunts, too full of ghosts for me, But to the olden dreams that time endears, And the loved books that younger grow with years; 230 To country rambles, timing with my tread Some happier verse that carols in my head, Yet all with sense of something vainly mist, Of something lost, but when I never wist. How empty seems to me the populous street, One figure gone I daily loved to meet,-- The clear, sweet singer with the crown of snow Not whiter than the thoughts that housed below! And, ah, what absence feel I at my side, Like Dante when he missed his laurelled guide, 240 What sense of diminution in the air Once so inspiring, Emerson not there! But life is sweet, though all that makes it sweet Lessen like sound of friends' departing feet, And Death is beautiful as feet of friend Coming with welcome at our journey's end; For me Fate gave, whate'er she else denied, A nature sloping to the southern side; I thank her for it, though when clouds arise Such natures double-darken gloomy skies. 250 I muse upon the margin of the sea, Our common pathway to the new To Be, Watching the sails, that lessen more and more, Of good and beautiful embarked before; With bits of wreck I patch the boat shall bear Me to that unexhausted Otherwhere, Whose friendly-peopled shore I sometimes see, By soft mirage uplifted, beckon me, Nor sadly hear, as lower sinks the sun, My moorings to the past snap one by one. 260
Written when Lowell was nearing seventy, this poem serves as a letter to his old friend George William Curtis, reviving verses he had set aside thirteen years prior and sharing them as a gesture of connection across time. Lowell reflects on his age — the struggles he no longer engages in, the friends he has lost (Longfellow, Emerson) — and realizes that life remains valuable, even as the ties to his past continue to fray. The poem concludes on a quietly optimistic note: death is not a door slamming shut but rather a welcoming shore where the people he cherished have already gathered.
Line-by-line
Curtis, so wrote I thirteen years ago, / Tost it unfinished by, and left it so;
Some of the verses pleased me, it is true, / And still were pertinent,--those honoring you.
These now I offer: take them, if you will, / Like the old hand-grasp, when at Shady Hill
If once you thought me rash, no longer fear; / Past my next milestone waits my seventieth year.
I mount no longer when the trumpets call; / My battle-harness idles on the wall,
Shivering sometimes it calls me as it hears / Afar the charge's tramp and clash of spears;
But 'tis such murmur only as might be / The sea-shell's lost tradition of the sea,
While from my cliff I watch the waves of men / That climb to break midway their seeming gain,
Little I ask of Fate; will she refuse / Some days of reconcilement with the Muse?
I take my reed again and blow it free / Of dusty silence, murmuring, 'Sing to me!'
Home am I come: not, as I hoped might be, / To the old haunts, too full of ghosts for me,
How empty seems to me the populous street, / One figure gone I daily loved to meet,--
The clear, sweet singer with the crown of snow / Not whiter than the thoughts that housed below!
And, ah, what absence feel I at my side, / Like Dante when he missed his laurelled guide,
But life is sweet, though all that makes it sweet / Lessen like sound of friends' departing feet,
And Death is beautiful as feet of friend / Coming with welcome at our journey's end;
For me Fate gave, whate'er she else denied, / A nature sloping to the southern side;
I muse upon the margin of the sea, / Our common pathway to the new To Be,
Nor sadly hear, as lower sinks the sun, / My moorings to the past snap one by one.
Tone & mood
The tone is reflective and warm, with a steady undercurrent of elegy. Lowell isn't just performing grief — he’s living with it, much like you adapt to a draft in an old house. There are moments of dry humor (like when he reassures Curtis that he’s no longer rash) and genuine tenderness (seen in his tributes to Longfellow and Emerson), but the overall mood is one of hard-won serenity. He’s come to terms with aging, loss, and the fading of ambition, and the poem conveys a sense of sincerity that feels very real.
Symbols & metaphors
- The battle-harness on the wall — Lowell's armor, now hanging idle, reflects a lifetime of public engagement—political activism, literary battles, and diplomatic service—that he has set aside. It still quivers at distant sounds, but it no longer joins the fight.
- The sea-shell's lost tradition of the sea — The hollow echo in a shell held to the ear reflects the faint, lingering pull of past passions. The shell may be dry and far from the ocean, but it still holds its memories — just like Lowell continues to hear the call of public life, even if he chooses not to respond.
- The reed — A classical symbol of the poet's instrument, rooted in pastoral and Eastern traditions. Blowing the dust off it marks Lowell's return to poetry after a long absence — a thoughtful, humble gesture of creative rebirth.
- The sea and the departing sails — The sea marks the boundary between life and death, and the sails fading into the distance represent the souls of friends who have gone before. Lowell stands on the shore, mending his own boat, waiting calmly.
- The crown of snow (Longfellow) — Longfellow's white hair forms a halo of purity, and Lowell quickly reinforces this image by noting that the thoughts within were even whiter. This tribute resonates both visually and morally.
- Dante's laurelled guide (Emerson) — By positioning Emerson as Virgil to his Dante, Lowell assigns him the crucial role of a guide through the challenging paths of intellectual and moral existence—someone whose absence truly leaves you feeling adrift.
Historical context
James Russell Lowell wrote this poem in 1887, at the age of sixty-eight, shortly after returning from his role as U.S. Ambassador to the Court of St. James's in London. He dedicated it to George William Curtis, a writer and political reformer who had been a close friend since the 1840s. The poem includes lines Lowell had initially drafted around 1874 but never completed. By 1887, the New England literary scene that Lowell had been part of was rapidly dwindling: Longfellow passed away in 1882, as did Emerson, and many others from his generation were gone. Lowell had spent much of the previous decade focused on his diplomatic duties instead of writing poetry, and this poem represents his deliberate effort to return to verse. It was included in his last collection, *Heartsease and Rue* (1888), which was published just three years before his death in 1891.
FAQ
George William Curtis (1824–1892) was an American essayist, the editor of *Harper's Weekly*, and a passionate advocate for civil service reform. He and Lowell had been friends since the 1840s, often meeting at spots like Shady Hill, the Cambridge home of Charles Eliot Norton, and Staten Island. By addressing the poem to Curtis, Lowell is framing it as a personal letter instead of a public statement — it's like he's sharing old verses the way you would share an old photograph.
This is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who passed away in March 1882. Known for his snowy white hair in his later years, Longfellow was not only a neighbor but also a close friend of Lowell in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The term 'crown of snow' refers to his white hair, and Lowell notes that the thoughts within were even purer than the hair on the outside — offering a heartfelt tribute instead of a formal elegy.
In Dante's *Divine Comedy*, the Roman poet Virgil leads Dante through Hell and Purgatory but is unable to accompany him into Paradise. When Virgil vanishes, Dante experiences a deep, unsettling sense of loss. Lowell draws on this moment to express his feelings following Ralph Waldo Emerson's death in April 1882. Emerson had served as the intellectual mentor for Lowell's entire generation — the figure who taught them to ponder America, nature, and the self. Without him, there was a vital absence in the atmosphere.
Lowell describes his temperament as naturally optimistic and sun-facing, much like a south-facing slope that receives more light and warmth than a north-facing one. He appreciates this disposition but acknowledges its cost: when dark times arrive, his sunny nature feels the weight of the darkness more acutely due to the stark contrast.
By 1887, many of the people Lowell cherished — including Longfellow, Emerson, and others — had already passed away. From this perspective, death isn't an ending; it's where reunions take place. He describes a friend's footsteps coming *toward* you, welcoming you, instead of walking away. This isn't so much a religious argument as it is an emotional one: for him, death has become the place where he connects with those he misses.
It symbolizes his many years in public life — as a passionate abolitionist poet during the 1840s and 1850s, as the editor of *The Atlantic Monthly* and the *North American Review*, and as a diplomat. He suggests that the armor now rests on the wall, collecting dust and spider webs. It still trembles at the sound of distant conflict, but Lowell doesn’t wear it anymore. The dents are all on the front, he points out — indicating he never backed down from a fight.
When you hold a shell to your ear, you hear a soft rushing noise — often called 'the sound of the sea.' Lowell uses this to illustrate the lingering draw he still feels toward public battles: it’s genuine and familiar, but it’s just a whisper of what once was. The shell has been taken from the ocean. He has stepped away from the arena. What’s left is a memory of the sound, not the sound itself.
Shady Hill was the estate of Charles Eliot Norton in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Norton was an art historian and a Harvard professor who played a key role in the New England intellectual community. This estate was a gathering spot for notable figures like Lowell, Curtis, Longfellow, and Emerson. By mentioning it alongside Staten Island, the text emphasizes the tangible history shared between Lowell and Curtis — it’s a way of saying: *we have a real connection, you and I, rooted in actual rooms and gardens.*