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.

Mountain Interval. 1920.

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