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Poem by Robert Lee Frost
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 taught, 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.
Robert Lee Frost
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