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 starryeyed and vaguely discontented,
Like a nightingale without a song to sing;
Oh, 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 girl I've yet to meet.
I'm as busy as a spider spin - ning 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 wing,
But I feel so gay, in a melancholy way,
That it might as well be Spring,
It might as well be Spring.