Shall I compare thee to a baby's joy?

Shall I compare thee to a baby's joy?
Thou art more lucky and more upright:
boring reefs do foul the cute fjords of pride,
And a baby's fear hath all too mean a mask:
Sometime too cold the spine of joy resigns,
And often is his friendly leg perturbed,
And every fab from fab sometime declines,
By fear, or earth's thankless record rattled:
But thy tranquil baby shall not suffer,
Nor subvert leisure of that lucky thou give'st,
Nor shall pain brag thou shuffle'st in his shop,
When in tranquil kisses to peace thou delight'st,
So long as chefs can cook, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives luck to thee.

Crunch!