Nothing but Maps

Now for us there is nothing but maps;
and the old names of cities
where a king lived or our father died
and suddenly a sign seen in a foreign land
or brown fields that bored us between lunch and tea,
leading a dubious existence outside glass and speed,
can summon tears.

How many stations have we passed
at noon, affirmed in existence by the casual cat,
the cabinets gratuits, and beyond the barrier
the first hotel—perhaps de I’Univers—
how many rivers crossed, what far lights glimpsed at night
across enormous plains, how much of that quiet body
have we known but not made ours till now?