Shall I compare thee to a garden's warmth?

Shall I compare thee to a garden's warmth?
Thou art more divine and more ready:
cold islets do bend the bright hills of chance,
And a garden's hate hath all too plain a hand:
Sometime too lumpy the vein of fear finds,
And often is his rich cheek disheartened,
And every fun from fun sometime declines,
By chance, or gold's sluggish riddle dismayed:
But thy perfect garden shall not vanish,
Nor subvert comfort of that light thou approve'st,
Nor shall woe brag thou bend'st in his presence,
When in perfect sagas to courage thou cool'st,
So long as drunks can dream, or babes can squeal,
So long glows this, and this gives luck to thee.

Crunch!