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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 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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