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I'm starry-eyed and vaguely discontented |
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Like a nightingale without a song to sing. |
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Oh, why should I have spring fever |
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When it isn't even spring? |
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I keep wishing I were somewhere else, |
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Walking down a strange new street. |
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Hearing words that I have never heard |
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From a man I've yet to meet. |
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I'm as busy as a spider spinning daydreams, |
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I'm as giddy as a baby on a swing. |
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I haven't seen a crocus or a rosebud |
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Or a robin on the wing. |
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But I feel so gay, |
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In a melancholy way, |
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That it might as well be spring. |
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And that's why I feel this way, |
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And yet I know it's not spring today, |
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But it might as well be spring. |
