I'm as restless as a willow in a windstormnI'm as jumpy as a puppet on a stringnI'd say that I had spring fevernBut I know it isn't springnnI am starry-eyed and vaguely discontentednLike a nightingale without a song to singnOh, why should I have Spring fevernWhen it isn't even spring?nnI keep wishing I were somewhere elsenWalking down a strange new streetnHearing words that I have never heardnFrom a girl I've yet to meetnnI'm as busy as a spider spinning daydreamsnI'm as giddy as a baby on a swingnI haven't seen a crocus or a rosebud or a robin on the wingnBut I feel so gay in a melancholy waynThat it might as well be springnnIt might as well be spring