Nearly they stood who fall;

Themselves as they look back,

See always in the track,

The one false step, where all,

Even yet, by lightest swerve,

Of foot not yet enslaved,

By smallest tremor of the smallest nerve,

Might have been saved.

Nearly they fell who stand,

And with cold after fear

Look back to mark how near

They grazed the Sirens’ land.

Wondering that subtle fate,

By threads so spidery fine,

The choice of ways so small, the event so great,

Should thus entwine.

Therefore oh, man, have fear

Lest oldest fears be true,

Lest thou too far pursue

The road that seems so clear,

And step, secure, a hair’s

Breadth past the hair-breadth bourne,

Which, being once crossed forever unawares,

Denies return.

— C.S. Lewis, Pilgrim’s Regress