Graves At Christiania

WE bore them their own wild

And ash-boughs jeweled red,

There where they sleep together,

Greatest of Norway's dead.

More than the hush of

Is the hush where Ibsen lies,

Columned by poplars and birches,

Vaulted by glorious skies.

Over that heart

Soars a shaft of labrador,

Black yet beauty-haunted,

Marked with the hammer of Thor.

But what memorial

To Björnson, loved of the folk?

We sought till our quest had

Where tender voices spoke,

Where never a rail

That resting-place of fame,

A little plot of roses,

Nameless nor needing name.