WE bore them their own wild heather <br />And ash-boughs jeweled red, <br />There where they sleep together, <br />Greatest of Norway's dead. <br />More than the hush of churches <br />Is the hush where Ibsen lies, <br />Columned by poplars and birches, <br />Vaulted by glorious skies. <br />Over that heart undaunted <br />Soars a shaft of labrador, <br />Black yet beauty-haunted, <br />Marked with the hammer of Thor. <br />But what memorial lifted <br />To Björnson, loved of the folk? <br />We sought till our quest had drifted <br />Where tender voices spoke, <br />Where never a rail encloses <br />That resting-place of fame, <br />A little plot of roses, <br />Nameless nor needing name.<br /><br />Katharine Lee Bates<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/graves-at-christiania/
