Graves At Christiania

WE bore them their own wild heather

And ash-boughs jeweled red,

There where they sleep together,

Greatest of Norway's dead.

More than the hush of churches

Is the hush where Ibsen lies,

Columned by poplars and birches,

Vaulted by glorious skies.

Over that heart undaunted

Soars a shaft of labrador,

Black yet beauty-haunted,

Marked with the hammer of Thor.

But what memorial lifted

To Björnson, loved of the folk?

We sought till our quest had drifted

Where tender voices spoke,

Where never a rail encloses

That resting-place of fame,

A little plot of roses,

Nameless nor needing name.