Robert Frost

poems:

15

the line-gang

Here come the line-gang pioneering by. They throw a forest down less cut than broken. They plant dead trees for living, and the dead they string together with a living thread. They string an instrument against the sky wherein words whether beaten out or spoken will run as hushed as when they were a thought but in no hush they string it: they go past with 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 naught they bring the telephone and telegraph.

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