Because my seeds have wings, you know,
They fly away to earth;
And where they fall, why, there they grow—
New Sycamores have birth!
Perhaps a score? Oh, hundreds more!
Too many, people say!
And yet to me it’s fun to see
My winged seeds fly away.
(But first they must turn ripe and brown,
And lose their flush of red;
And then they’ll all go twirling down
To earth, to find a bed.)