“Beyond the Tip of Mystery,” Ensign, Jan. 1987, 21
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.