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(1945) richard rodgers, oscar hammerstein ii

The things i used to like, i don't like any more,
I want a lot of other things i've never had before,
It's just like my mamma says, i sit around and mourn
Pretending that i am so wonderful and knowing i'm adored

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'm as starry eyed and gravely 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 i have never 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 or a bluebird on the wing,
But i feel so gay in a melancholy way,
That it might as well be spring,
It might as well be, might as well be,
It might as well be spring.