The Companionable Ills

The nose-end that twitches, the old imperfections—
Tolerable now as moles on the face
Put up 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