I Love You Even If It Bides Me Ill (Italian Sonnet) Poem by Gert Strydom

(in answer to Alexander Sergeyevich Pus)

I love you even if it bides me ill,
this is more than feeling or just desire,
where as a woman I do you admire,
I love you with tenderness and goodwill

and probably past death love you I will,
this is more than devotion that inspire,
or passion that at a time turns to ire,
with the joy and hope you do my life fill.

Even when you tell me to leave and go
I believe that you remain true to me,
even where now I do not understand,
- I love you with the faith a child does know,
without fear, betrayal or jealousy,
I believe again you will take my hand.

[Reference: 'I love thee' by Alexander Sergeyevich Pus.


I am quoting this poem of his right here:


'I love thee' by Alexander Sergeyevich Pus

'I loved thee; and perchance until this moment
Within my breast is smouldering still the fire!
Yet I would spare thy pain the least renewal,
Nothing shall rouse again the old desire! '

'I loved thee with a silent desperation--
Now timid, now with jealousy brought low,
I loved devoutly, --with such deep devotion--
Ah may God grant another love thee so! '


Another Translation:

'I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.
I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.
I loved you with such tenderness and candour
And pray God grants you to be loved that way again. '


Another translation:

'I loved you' by Alexander Sergeyevich Pus

'I loved you, and I probably still do,
And for a while the feeling may remain...
But let my love no longer trouble you,
I do not wish to cause you any pain.
I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew,
The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain -
Made up a love so tender and so true
As may God grant you to be loved again.'

Translated by Genia Gurarie,11/10/95


Another translation:

'I loved you once' by Alexander Sergeyevich Pus

'I loved you once, nor can this heart be quiet;
For it would seem that love still lingers there;
But do not you be further troubled by it;
I would in no wise hurt you, oh, my dear.
I loved you without hope, a mute offender;
What jealous pangs, what shy despairs I knew!
A love as deep as this, as true, as tender,
God grant another may yet offer you.']
© Gert Strydom