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When I was young I lived in a world of dreams |
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Of moods and myths and illusionary schemes |
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Though now I'm much more grown up |
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I fear that I must own up |
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To the fact that I'm in doubt of |
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What the modern cynics shout of |
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They say it's spring |
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This feeling light as a feather |
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They say this thing |
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This magic we share together |
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Came with the weather too |
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They say it's May |
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That's made me daft as a daisy |
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It's May, they say |
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That gave the whole world this crazy |
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Heavenly, hazy hue |
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I'm a lark on the wing |
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I'm the spark of a firefly's fling |
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Yet to me this must be |
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Something more than a seasonal thing |
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Could it be spring |
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Those bells that I can hear ringing |
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It may be spring |
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But when the robins stop singing |
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You're what I'm clinging to |
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Though they say it's spring, it's you |
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If poets sing |
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That when a hard sympathetic |
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It's merely spring |
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Then poets plights are pathetic |
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Though I'm poetic too |
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They say it's spring |
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For lovers, there's where the lure is |
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That evil thing |
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For which September the cure is |
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This they are sure is true |
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Though I know that it's so |
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That my fancy may turn in the spring |
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With the right one in sight |
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One can find a perpetual thing |
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Did I need spring |
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To bring the ring that you bought me |
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Though it was spring |
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That wondrous day that you caught me |
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Darling I thought we knew |
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That it wasn't spring, it was you |
