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   It might as well be spring