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