James Russell Lowell

(22 February 1819 – 12 August 1891 / Cambridge, Massachusetts)

James Russell Lowell Poems

81. A Chippewa Legend 5/10/2012
82. A Parable 5/10/2012
83. A Letter From A Candidate For The Presidency 5/10/2012
84. A Christmas Carol 5/10/2012
85. Summer Storm 5/10/2012
86. A Winter-Evening Hymn To My Fire 5/10/2012
87. Midnight 5/10/2012
88. A Third Letter From B. Sawin, Esq. 5/10/2012
89. The Sirens 5/10/2012
90. George Washington 5/10/2012
91. A Contrast 5/10/2012
92. A Youthful Experiment In English Hexameters 5/10/2012
93. A Glance Behind The Curtain 5/10/2012
94. Stanzas On Freedom 5/10/2012
95. A Revolutionary Hero 5/10/2012
96. A Mood 5/10/2012
97. A Requiem 5/10/2012
98. A Fable For Critics 5/10/2012
99. A Valentine 5/10/2012
100. A Prayer 5/10/2012
101. The First Snowfall 5/10/2012
102. A Letter 5/10/2012
103. The Search 2/5/2006
104. A Stanza On Freedom 5/10/2012
105. Above And Below 5/10/2012

Comments about James Russell Lowell

  • Mevelyn Richardson (12/1/2015 2:23:00 PM)

    I'm looking for the name of a poem by JTL about winter. I remember some words, perhaps not accurate:
    The snow had begun in the gloaming and busily all the night, had been heaping field and byway with a silence deep and bright. Every pine, fir and hemlock wore ermine too deep for an Earl. And the poorest twig on the elm tree was ridged inch deep in pearl.

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Best Poem of James Russell Lowell

Above And Below

I

O dwellers in the valley-land,
Who in deep twilight grope and cower,
Till the slow mountain's dial-hand
Shorten to noon's triumphal hour,
While ye sit idle, do ye think
The Lord's great work sits idle too?
That light dare not o'erleap the brink
Of morn, because 'tis dark with you?

Though yet your valleys skulk in night,
In God's ripe fields the day is cried,
And reapers, with their sickles bright,
Troop, singing, down the mountain-side:
Come up, and feel what health there is
In the frank Dawn's delighted eyes,
As, bending ...

Read the full of Above And Below

Sonnet

The Maple puts her corals on in May,
While loitering frosts about the lowlands cling,
To be in tune with what the robins sing,
Plastering new log-huts 'mid her branches gray;
But when the Autumn southward turns away,
Then in her veins burns most the blood of Spring,
And every leaf, intensely blossoming,
Makes the year's sunset pale the set of day.
O Youth unprescient, were it only so

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