Eugene Onegin

by Alexander Pushkin

Moët, that wine most blest and heady, Or Veuve Cliquot, the finest class, Is brought in bottle chilled and ready And set beside the poet’s glass. Like Hippocrene* it sparkles brightly, It fizzes, foams, and bubbles lightly (A simile in many ways); It charmed me too, in other days: For its sake once, I squandered gladly My last poor pence … remember, friend? Its magic stream brought forth no end Of acting foolish, raving madly, And, oh, how many jests and rhymes, And arguments, and happy times! 46 But all that foamy, frothy wheezing Just plays my stomach false, I fear; And nowadays I find more pleasing Sedate Bordeaux’s good quiet cheer. Aï* I find is much too risky, Aï is like a mistress—frisky, Vivacious, brilliant… and too light. But you, Bordeaux, I find just right; You’re like a comrade, ever steady, Prepared in trials or in grief To render service, give relief; And when we wish it, always ready To share a quiet evening’s end. Long live Bordeaux, our noble friend!