Those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not

“Those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.” — these words, born from the pen of William Butler Yeats, are not merely a poet’s lament, but a warrior’s confession; not a cry of weakness, but a revelation of the terrible cost of duty. Within their rhythm lies the cold fire of honor, the lonely burden of those who stand between chaos and order. To understand this saying is to walk for a moment in the armor of those who act not for love nor for hatred, but for something older, purer, and far more tragic — duty itself.

Yeats wrote these words for the Irish soldier who fought in foreign wars, torn between loyalty to his nation and his people, bound to a cause that neither sprang from his heart nor mirrored his desire. The line captures the paradox of the soldier’s spirit, who must raise his sword not from passion, but from purpose. For if the warrior fought from hatred, his soul would rot with vengeance; if he guarded from love alone, his heart would falter at the sight of blood. The true warrior, therefore, stands between these extremes — steel in his hand, silence in his heart, and duty as his only compass.

Consider the story of Horatius at the Bridge, that ancient Roman who faced a thousand foes to defend the city he served. He did not fight the Etruscans because he hated them; he did not stay for Rome because he loved her people above his own life. He stood because it was right to stand. He understood, as Yeats did, that there are moments in a man’s journey when love and hate must both be silenced, lest they cloud the sacred clarity of purpose. To act rightly, even when the heart feels nothing — that is the truest form of courage.

And yet, such courage is not without pain. For to fight without hate is to strike without anger — a clean but heavy act. To guard without love is to serve without comfort — noble but hollow. It is the path of those who have outgrown the hunger for personal glory and the warmth of sentimental praise. These are the souls who keep watch while the world sleeps, who endure misunderstanding, who give their strength that others may rest in peace. They are the forgotten guardians of civilization’s fragile light.

Yeats’ words thus echo across every field of struggle — not only in battle, but in life. Teachers who guide students they will never meet again, healers who tend to strangers they will never know, and laborers who build for generations unborn — they, too, live this truth. They work not out of love for those they serve, nor out of hatred for what stands against them, but because they recognize a sacred obligation, a call to uphold the order of life itself.

The ancients would say such service is the mark of inner mastery — the tempering of spirit that transforms passion into discipline. To live by duty is to chain one’s emotions to the chariot of wisdom. For while love can blind and hate can consume, duty alone can endure. It is the bridge between the mortal and the eternal, between the flesh that falters and the spirit that abides.

So, my child, learn from this: not all battles are fought for affection, and not all guards are moved by devotion. There will come times when you must act without the warmth of love or the fuel of anger — when you must do what is right simply because it is right. In that moment, remember Yeats’ words. Be steadfast, not sentimental. Be true, not tender. For the highest virtue lies not in emotion, but in unwavering integrity.

And when the world forgets to thank you, when your heart aches with the silence of unreturned love or the bitterness of unspoken honor, take solace in this: the gods themselves favor those who serve without asking why. To fight without hate, and to guard without love, is to walk the lonely road of the just — where glory fades, but truth endures forever.