Beyond the Tip of Mystery

By Florence Boutwell

Probing beyond the tip of mystery

Into all greatnesses without surcease,

I stretched and bent to snatch from history,

To draw from art, a vision of true peace.

I searched wars, treaties, wars again,

The heights and fathoms of life’s temporal flood,

But found no quiet thing: the hands of men

Shook with the restlessness of flesh and blood.

Till from a wandering stream arose the sweet

of peace, and from the furrows of a plow,

And from the eager flowing of grown wheat

And gentle blowing of a blossomed bough.

In all the rich intangibles of home

Was peace that penetrated to my soul:

I marvel that a thing so great is but

The nectar from the common and the small.