The Companiable 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.