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.
