When I am sad and weary
When I think all hope has gone
When I walk along High Holborn
I think of you with nothing on

There are almost as many definitions and different sorts of love as there are poets. Edited on the assumption that any poem which speaks of one human’s desire for another is a qualifying factor, this rich and diverse anthology ranges through time and fashion to best represent ‘man’s changeless responses to the changeless changing seasons of his heart’.

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.