This day is called the feast of Ignatius:
He and she from this traveling monastery that comes safe home,
Even if only commencing but not completing the course,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse at the name of the Antiochian.
He and she that hath lived this quest, and shall see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Ignatius:’
Then will that outdoor leader strip the sleeve and show the scars.
And say ‘These wounds I had in the fall of ‘25.’
Old men and women forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But that blessed one will remember with advantages
What feats we completed on that trip. Then shall our names,
Familiar in the mouth as household words:
Thomas the Chef, Luke the Oratorian,
Aidan the Woodsmen, Amberlee the Wondrously Joyful,
Peter the Beef Jerky Eater, Nurse Gorsich the Healer,
Adam the Fire-Worker, Stephen the Stable One,
Leo the Placid, Doctor Krom the Conversationalist,
And Brother Roman the Wandering Cenobite,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man and woman
teach sons and daughters, be they fleshly or spiritual;
And Ignatius of Antioch shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers and sisters;
For he and she that hath hiked with me,
Be it for a part of the journey or entire,
Shall be my brother and sister; be he and she ne’er so vile,
This trip hath gentled that condition:
And gentlemen and ladies of Saint Vincent now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods and womanhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That hiked with us in this blessed misery.