Happiness only real when shared

Death's a fierce meadowlark: but to die having made

Something more equal to centuries

Than muscle and bone, is mostly to shed weakness.

The mountains are dead stone, the people

Admire or hate their stature, their insolent quietness,

The mountains are not softened or troubled

And a few dead men's thoughts have the same temper.

I don't think I can do justice if I describe how he felt. The bittersweet realization gets to me every time I'm reminded of him.