At the Sarah Bernhardt Theatre

NOTHING that man's creative mind hath wroughtIs wholly foreign to the mind of man:He looks before and after; in his spanOf life infinities of life are caught,—Brooding, mysterious, and travail-fraught,—And near and distant answer, as they can,Enkindled at the flame PrometheanOf world-embracing, heaven-illumined Thought!

Last night a woman played in Paris hereThe rôle of Hamlet, each distinctive grace,By genius all-subduing and sublime,Made native in an alien land and time,—As though she, listening with accustomed ear,Had learned of English Shakespeare, face to face!