The Line-Gang

by Robert Frost

　　

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Here come the line-gang pioneering by.They throw a forest down less cut than broken.They plant dead trees for living, and the deadThey string together with a living thread.They string an instrument against the skyWherein words whether beaten out or spokenWill run as hushed as when they were a thought.But in no hush they string it: they go pastWith shouts afar to pull the cable taut,To hold it hard until they make it fast,To ease away––they have it. With a laugh,An oath of towns that set the wild at naughtThey bring the telephone and telegraph.

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