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Postscript, 1887 by James Russell Lowell

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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.

Poet
James Russell Lowell
Core theme
Friendship
The PoemFull text

Postscript, 1887

James Russell Lowell

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

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Sourced from Project Gutenberg

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§01Quick summary

What this poem is about

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.

§02Themes

Recurring themes

§03Line by line

Stanza by stanza, with notes

  1. Curtis, so wrote I thirteen years ago, / Tost it unfinished by, and left it so;

    Editor's note

    Lowell begins by sharing the poem's unusual backstory: he wrote it in 1874, set it aside, and now, in 1887, has pieced it together again to send to his friend Curtis. This candid acknowledgment of its unfinished nature establishes a self-deprecating, conversational tone from the outset.

  2. Some of the verses pleased me, it is true, / And still were pertinent,--those honoring you.

    Editor's note

    He sifts through the old draft like someone rummaging through a drawer, holding onto only the lines that still resonate — especially those that commend Curtis. It’s a humble act: he’s not presenting finished work, just the fragments that passed his own scrutiny.

  3. These now I offer: take them, if you will, / Like the old hand-grasp, when at Shady Hill

    Editor's note

    The verses aren’t just literary works; they’re like a handshake between old friends. Shady Hill was the Cambridge estate of Charles Eliot Norton, a common meeting spot for their circle, while Staten Island was another favorite hangout—these specific place names root their friendship in genuine, shared memories.

  4. If once you thought me rash, no longer fear; / Past my next milestone waits my seventieth year.

    Editor's note

    Lowell admits that he used to be hot-headed and impulsive when he was younger. Now, as he approaches seventy, that fire has cooled. There's a touch of gentle humor in this — he's letting Curtis know that the old firebrand has mellowed out.

  5. I mount no longer when the trumpets call; / My battle-harness idles on the wall,

    Editor's note

    The armor on the wall vividly represents a life filled with public engagement—political, literary, and diplomatic—that Lowell has mostly moved away from. He was a dedicated abolitionist and later served as the U.S. Ambassador to Spain and Britain; this 'battle-harness' isn't just a metaphor; it has genuine significance in his biography.

  6. Shivering sometimes it calls me as it hears / Afar the charge's tramp and clash of spears;

    Editor's note

    Even the old armor seems to shake at the distant sounds of public life and political turmoil. Lowell hasn’t lost his instincts; he just doesn’t follow them anymore. The armor takes on a life of its own, representing his younger self.

  7. But 'tis such murmur only as might be / The sea-shell's lost tradition of the sea,

    Editor's note

    One of the poem's most striking comparisons: the subtle pull Lowell still feels toward public battle is akin to the sound you hear when you hold a shell to your ear — an echo of something immense and tangible, yet no longer the thing itself. The shell has departed from the ocean; Lowell has stepped away from the arena.

  8. While from my cliff I watch the waves of men / That climb to break midway their seeming gain,

    Editor's note

    From his perspective as someone who has lived many years, Lowell observes younger generations charging ahead with enthusiasm, only to stumble along the way. The wave metaphor isn’t meant to be cynical; it reflects the understanding of someone who has experienced being a wave himself and understands the currents of the ocean.

  9. Little I ask of Fate; will she refuse / Some days of reconcilement with the Muse?

    Editor's note

    Lowell's final wish is simple: he wants to return to poetry. He presents it as a negotiation with Fate, almost like a heartfelt plea. After spending years in the public eye—editing, engaging in diplomacy, and offering criticism—he longs to go back to the art he cherished most.

  10. I take my reed again and blow it free / Of dusty silence, murmuring, 'Sing to me!'

    Editor's note

    The reed symbolizes the poet's instrument, reminiscent of Pan's pipes or the reed flute in Rumi's work. Blowing the dust out of it represents a revival — Lowell is reigniting his creative life and inviting the Muse to inspire him once more.

  11. Home am I come: not, as I hoped might be, / To the old haunts, too full of ghosts for me,

    Editor's note

    Lowell came back from his years as an ambassador in Europe to discover that the familiar places of his past are now filled with memories of those who have passed away. He can't revisit the actual haunts—too many friends are no longer there. Instead, he turns inward to find solace in old dreams, cherished books, and familiar rhythms.

  12. How empty seems to me the populous street, / One figure gone I daily loved to meet,--

    Editor's note

    Even a crowded street feels empty when the one face you were hoping to see is gone. Lowell is about to mention two significant losses: Longfellow ('the clear, sweet singer with the crown of snow') and Emerson. Both passed away in 1882, five years before this poem was published.

  13. The clear, sweet singer with the crown of snow / Not whiter than the thoughts that housed below!

    Editor's note

    This is Lowell's elegy for Longfellow — his white hair ('crown of snow') reflects the purity of his inner life. The compliment feels warm and personal, rather than a formal eulogy. Longfellow was not just a neighbor; he was a close friend of Lowell's for decades.

  14. And, ah, what absence feel I at my side, / Like Dante when he missed his laurelled guide,

    Editor's note

    Lowell likens Emerson's loss to Dante losing Virgil — the guide who took him through the underworld but couldn't accompany him any longer. This comparison is both accurate and heartfelt: Emerson was the guiding light for Lowell's generation, and his absence created a distinct void.

  15. But life is sweet, though all that makes it sweet / Lessen like sound of friends' departing feet,

    Editor's note

    The turn here is key. Lowell doesn’t dwell in sorrow. Life remains beautiful, even as it drains away, and the picture of friends’ departing footsteps is painfully vivid — the sound that lingers as someone walks away from you for the final time.

  16. And Death is beautiful as feet of friend / Coming with welcome at our journey's end;

    Editor's note

    Death is seen not as a loss but as an arrival — like the sound of a friend's footsteps approaching you instead of retreating. For Lowell, many of the people he cherished are already gone, so death has transformed into the space for reunion. This notion is one of the poem's most subtly revolutionary concepts.

  17. For me Fate gave, whate'er she else denied, / A nature sloping to the southern side;

    Editor's note

    Lowell sees himself as naturally sunny—optimistic and warm-hearted. He appreciates this trait but candidly acknowledges its downside: when darkness arrives, his sunny disposition feels the weight of it even more.

  18. I muse upon the margin of the sea, / Our common pathway to the new To Be,

    Editor's note

    The sea marks the boundary between this life and what lies beyond. Lowell observes the sails of the dead — 'good and beautiful embarked before' — shrinking on the horizon. He isn’t afraid; he’s simply waiting for his turn, repairing his own boat with the remnants of his experiences.

  19. Nor sadly hear, as lower sinks the sun, / My moorings to the past snap one by one.

    Editor's note

    The poem ends with Lowell listening, free of grief, as the final ties to his past life loosen. The sun sets, the moorings break — yet the tone is one of acceptance, even peace. He is prepared to set sail.

§04Tone & mood

How this poem feels

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.

§05Symbols & metaphors

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.

§06Form & structure

Form & structure

Meter
iambic pentameter
Rhyme
AABBCCDDEEFFGGHHIIJJ KKLLMMNNOOPPQQRRSSTT UUVVWWXXYYZZ

§07Historical context

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.

§08FAQ

Questions readers ask

Who is Curtis, and why is the poem addressed to him?

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.

Who is 'the clear, sweet singer with the crown of snow'?

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.

What does Lowell mean by comparing himself to Dante missing his 'laurelled guide'?

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.

What does 'a nature sloping to the southern side' mean?

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.

Why does Lowell say Death is 'beautiful'?

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.

What is the 'battle-harness' Lowell mentions?

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.

What does the sea-shell image mean?

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.

What is 'Shady Hill' and why does Lowell mention it?

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.

Citation

Cite this poem

MLA

Lowell, James Russell. "Postscript, 1887." Storgy, https://storgy.com/poems/postscript-1887-james-russell-lowell/.

APA

Lowell, J. R. (n.d.). Postscript, 1887. Storgy. https://storgy.com/poems/postscript-1887-james-russell-lowell/

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In 'Postscript, 1887,' James Russell Lowell constructs aging not as defeat but as a hard-won clarification of desire: stripped of martial ambition and public noise, the speaker discovers that the only campaign worth waging is the private …

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