Here you will find the Poem Johan Ludvig Heiberg 1860 of poet Bjornstjerne Bjornson
To the grave they bore him sleeping, Him the aged, genial gardener; Now the children gifts are heaping From the flower-bed he made. There the tree that he sat under, And the garden gate is open, While we cast a glance and wonder Whether some one sits there still. He is gone. A woman only Wanders there with languid footsteps, Clothed in black and now so lonely, Where his laughter erst rang clear. As a child when past it going, Through the fence she looked with longing, Now great tears so freely flowing Are her thanks that she came in. Fairy-tales and thoughts high-soaring Whispered to him 'neath the foliage. She flits softly, gathering, storing Them as solace for her woe. * Far his wanderings once bore him, Bore this aged, genial searcher; One who listening sat before him Much could learn from time to time. Life and letters were his ladder Up toward that which few discover, Thought's wide realm, with vision gladder He explored, each summit scaled. In his manhood he defended All that greatness has and beauty; Later he the stars attended In their silent course to God. * Older men remember rather "New Year!" ringing o'er the Northland. How it power had to gather Leaders to a greater age Do you him remember leaping Forth, his horn so gladly winding, Back the mob on all sides sweeping From the progress of the great? Play of thought 'mid tears and laughter, Fauns and children were about him; Freedom's beacons high thereafter Kindled slowly of themselves. And his words soon found a hearing, Peace of heart flowed from his music; All the land thrilled to the nearing Of a great prophetic choir. ** In his manhood he defended All that greatness has and beauty; Later he the stars attended In their silent course to God. Northern flowers were his pleasure, As an aged genial gardener, From his nation's springtime treasure Culling seed for deathless growth. Now with humor, now sedately, He kept planting or uprooting, While the Danish beech-tree stately Gave his soul its evening peace. There the tree we saw him under, And the garden gate is open, While we cast a glance and wonder Whether some one sits there still.