In “Jazz,” from the Atlantic's January 1922 issue, Theodore Maynard contemplates the dancers at a cabaret:
They were not. They embraced without dismay,
Lovers who showed an awful lack of awe.Then, as I sat and drank my wine apart,
I pondered on this new religion, which
Lay heavily on the face of the rich,
Who, occupied with ritual, never smiled—
Because I heard, within my quiet heart,
Happiness laughing like a little child.
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