It sometimes happens

It sometimes happens that the soul stands firm.
Although death’s cruel wind blows everywhere,
The soul's frail blossom is too proud to tremble:
Even the tiniest petal will not stir.
There is no grief upon his face, no shadow;
No worldly cares disturb the poet’s mind.
“To write, to write” - there is the only striving
That guides the movement of his failing hand.
Rage on and murder: he has no fear of you.
The soul is free, though body be confined.
The poet only needs a scrap of paper
And any pencil stub that he can find.