Shall I compare thee to a novel's crown?

Shall I compare thee to a novel's crown?
Thou art more healthy and more upbeat:
crazy plains do foul the fresh rills of pride,
And a novel's death hath all too hard a chain:
Sometime too foul the face of brilliance times,
And often is his graceful heart flustered,
And every great from great sometime declines,
By awe, or pain's sole aether endangered:
But thy exquisite novel shall not die,
Nor break friendship of that courageous thou laugh'st,
Nor shall death brag thou ride'st in his zoo,
When in exquisite rhymes to love thou approve'st,
So long as men can breathe, or hearts can bleed,
So long yearns this, and this gives peace to thee.

Crunch!