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

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 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 wing

But I feel so gay in a melancholy way

That it might as well be spring