In a well guarded arena of open water surrounded by
Lesser and greater craft which, sycophant, lumbering
And flittering follow them, they appear youthful, rare
As the light of a happy eye, live with the grace
Of all that in the mind is fleckless, free and
Naturally to be desired. Now the sea which holds them
Is moody, lapping their glossy sides, as if feeling
For some slightest flaw but fails completely
Today no race. Then the wind comes again. The yachts
Move, jockeying for a start, the signal is set and they
Are off. Now the waves strike at them but they are too
Well made, they slip through, though they take in canvas
Arms with hands grasping seek to clutch at the prows
Bodies thrown recklessly in the way are cut aside
It is a sea of faces about them in agony, in despair
Until the horror of the race dawns staggering the mind;
Again, the disembodied image of “arms with hands” seeks to dehumanize the passengers of the lesser crafts in the eyes of the yacht-owners. It separates the struggles of the poor from any kind of sympathy by making them part of pitiful, desperate masses. Instead of being people with individual lives and stories, they become a nuisance, like a swarm of bugs that can never be exterminated. 

The Yachts