Sunday, December 30, 2012

Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

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.

No comments: