Sylvia Plath - The Companionable Ills

The nose-end that twitches, the old imperfections—-
Tolerable now as moles on the face
Put up with until chagrin gives place
To a wry complaisance—-

Dug in first as God's spurs
To start the spirit out of the mud
It stabled in; long-used, became well-loved
Bedfellows of the spirit's debauch, fond masters.

Sylvia Plath

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