With what a childish and short-sighted sense <br />Fear seeks for safety; recons up the days <br />Of danger and escape, the hours and ways <br />Of death; it breathless flies the pestilence; <br />It walls itself in towers of defence; <br />By land, by sea, against the storm it lays <br />Down barriers; then, comforted, it says: <br />"This spot, this hour is safe." Oh, vain pretence! <br />Man born of man knows nothing when he goes; <br />The winds blow where they list, and will disclose <br />To no man which brings safety, which brings risk. <br />The mighty are brought low by many a thing <br />Too small to name. Beneath the daisy's disk <br />Lies hid the pebble for the fatal sling.<br /><br />Helen Hunt Jackson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/danger/
