Here come the line-gang pioneering by, <br />They throw a forest down less cut than broken. <br />They plant dead trees for living, and the dead <br />They string together with a living thread. <br />They string an instrument against the sky <br />Wherein words whether beaten out or spoken <br />Will run as hushed as when they were a thought <br />But in no hush they string it: they go past <br />With shouts afar to pull the cable taught, <br />To hold it hard until they make it fast, <br />To ease away -- they have it. With a laugh, <br />An oath of towns that set the wild at naught <br />They bring the telephone and telegraph.<br /><br />Robert Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-line-gang/
