The Theater: Enter Poet, Laughing

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A strolling player—or was he a wandering minstrel, or even a poet?—pitched his tent on Broadway last week. The show he proceeded to put on—The Lady's Not for Burning (see above)—made the very neon signs flush with youthful colors; the street's familiar smells of cheap popcorn and theatrical ham were overblown with a strangely innocent perfume. In the midst of the prosaic November which for decades has frozen the English-speaking stage, poetic roses were all at once in bloom.

New Yorkers had heard London's loud applause for Christopher Fry last season....

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