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.

		Robert Graves