French ballad about wine

Мне Игорь Скрягин сделал подарок: перевёл моё стихотворение "Баллада о вине", выставленное здесь ранее, на английский язык. Отдаю его на ваш суд.

I’ve poured a wine into my crystal glass
And waited for a finish of the motion
Of drink in that. A wine like scarlet mass
With beauty its inspires me emotion.
I look at glass and see in a reflection
From rays of candle standing table on,
And does call just in me kind of temptation
Young Beaujolais in vessel that is lone.

As if a phial with an offering blood
Is cup of mine. And my imagination
Inspires that a dagger makes a flood
From me and life of mine’s in termination.
At crown of all is to drink a young
Wine fermentation to a death meet funny.
In vessel Beaujolais does dimly spark
Before that will be shortly under drying.

In wine I looking were a light resort,
When in my friends were feeling I a doubt,
A sip of drink made usually support
For cooling passions and my stress went out.
Suspicions instantly had disappeared,
On forehead mine wrinkles had turned smooth
And Beaujolais in vessel had indeed
Run out (do believe, it is a truth!).

Both fear and dizziness expired had,
Just glare of candles is in brilliant crystal,
My friend, in vessel a young Beaujolais
Is not already and my look is pleased well.