I'm 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 man 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.
 And that's why I feel this way,
 And yet I know it's not spring today,
 But it might as well be spring.