Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
    Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
    A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
    Of deities or mortals, or of both,
        In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
    What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
        What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
    Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
    Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
    Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
        Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
    She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
        For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
    Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
    For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
    For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
        For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
    That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
        A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
    To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
    And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
    Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
        Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
    Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
        Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
    Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden ****;
    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
    When old age shall this generation waste,
        Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
    "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
        Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

Powerful Oaks nurture glistening orbs , curtain call of the Muses ,  prequel of effervescent , diurnal joy amongst their brethren with abundant ****** melodies ! The Angels of Harmony , melodist of Zion , proclaim from the East ! The woodland duet , song of Brown Thrasher and Chickadee , the acoustical miracles of the Heavenly host , brilliant a cappella voices with thunderous volume , first chair instrumentalist within the symphony of Dawn

I often choose Schubert and not Beethoven though he revered the latter so much.

He achieved sublimity without having to assert unlike Beethoven.
His music is more tender and gentle but it touches the very core of our heart in every measure while Beethoven insisted that his music must be heard..

Schubert was humble and congenial but Beethoven was wild, irascible and hurtful.  If there were gratitude, look to the life of Schubert who owed so much financially to his faithful friends.  

Schubert almost never performed in public--only twice unlike Beethoven.  Greatness can be defined in many ways. In music, I admire the life and personality of the composer as much as his music.  

Mozart was a master of melodies and Schubert was equal. Who could write over 600 lieder?  Dvorak was a great melodist like Tchaikovsky but there's only one Schubert.

Why did I not mention Johan Staruss junior and the other Strausses?  Their music is mainly ball-room music, to be heard for the moment, pleasurable but speaks little or nothing of the larger issues of human existence--they were great but of much lighter weight. I would die for the longing of Schubert's  but certainly not of the Strausses'.

  Some of you might not agree. I live in Melb, a music-lover.  
  Music is my religion