Robert Graves

To Be Called a Bear

Bears gash the forest trees
    To mark the bounds
    Of their own hunting grounds;
They follow the wild bees
    Point by point home
    For love of honeycomb;
They browse on blueberries.
 
Then should I stare
If I am called a bear,
And is it not the truth?
Unkept and surly with a sweet tooth
I tilt my muzzle toward the stary hub
Where Queen Callisto guards her cub,
 
But envy those that here
    All winter breathing slow
    Sleep warm under the snow,
That yawn awake when the skies clear,
    And lank with longing grow
No more than one brief month a year.

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