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
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-companionable-ills/
