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.