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.
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