Read it through once

To-day’s brief passion limits their range; It seethes with the morrow for us and more. They are perfect--how else? they shall never change: We are faulty--why not? we have time in store. The Artificer’s hand is not arrested With us; we are rough-hewn, nowise polished. They stand for our copy, and, once invested With all they can teach, we shall see them abolished.