I don't know his name or what he looks like, But I have a much more certain guide: I can tell exactly what he looks like inside. When I undertook this correspondence, Little did I know I'd grow so fond; Little did I know our views would so correspond. He writes me what his feelings are On Shaw, Flaubert, Chopin, Renoir. The more I read, the more I find We're one in mind and heart. I know the kind of home we'd share, The books, the prints, the music there, A home, a life, that's warm and full And rich in love and art. I don't need to see his handsome profile. I don't need to see his manly frame. All I need to know is in each letter, Each long revealing letter. I couldn't know him better If I knew his name.