Lynx-eyed, cat-quiet, sleepy mild, He could seem a wary child, His tilted head a little turned Like one who very early learned Of unexpectedness in life. But the blade within his knife Is the razor temper in his bone Which he never had to hone To edge it ready for the kill. Surely light-voiced, lounging still, Southern-sweet at mouth and brow, Once provoked, he'd show you how In an instant he could spring To be the death of anything. The yellow gaze in his sighting eye Will never flick when his bullets fly. Paul Horgan, "Tintype Of A Private Of The Fifteenth Georgia Infantry"