I'm as restless as a willow in a windstorm

I'm as jumpy as a puppet on a string

I'd say that I had spring fever

but I know it isn't spring



I am starry eyed and vaguely discontented

like a nightingale without a song to sing

Why should I have spring fever

when it isn't even spring



I keep wishing I were somewhere else

walking down a strange new street

hearing words that I have never heard

from a man I've yet to meet



I'm as busy as a spider spinning daydreams

I'm as giddy as a baby on a swing

I haven't seen a crocus or a rosebud

or a robin on the wind



But I feel so gay

in a melancholy way

that it might as well be spring

It might as well be spring