The nose-end that twitches, the old imperfections—- <br />Tolerable now as moles on the face <br />Put up with until chagrin gives place <br />To a wry complaisance—- <br /> <br />Dug in first as God's spurs <br />To start the spirit out of the mud <br />It stabled in; long-used, became well-loved <br />Bedfellows of the spirit's debauch, fond masters.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-companionable-ills/
