Beloved, when Adam named the creatures, he gave them garments of speech. One by one, God led them out before Adam’s discerning eye. Like a tailor, Adam measured the creatures in his comprehension, and wrapped each on in the finery of thought. And so bedight, each one again departed.
But no cast of thought will ever fit your trim, my love. Fancy’s finest silks: about your divine frame, they fall like smoke. No name could sound your infinite depth, no notion compass your great expanse, no concept grasp your infinite ocean. Silver verses, golden words of wisdom: so much sand upon your shore.
The mariner is most at home at sea, and I, your faithful tailor will forever serve you. My hands delight to fashion raiments for your glory. Wear one, if it please you, as you dance through the conceits of men. Another as you guide the painter’s hand. Don another in the morning if you venture in the marketplace. Assume each dress or mantel as it please you and cast it off when it shall cease. Your joy alone is my delight. And what is it to bring beauty to the springtime or spices to the Orient?
The tailor fits his articles to his subject, the poets attunes his verse to whom it speaks. You wear these many names like garments, but one design will never pass my hem. The names that name are often spoken, but your true name is safe with me.