Here come the line-gang pioneering by They throw a forest down
less cut than broken. The 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. - by
Robert Frost