"Unfertile" Quotes from Famous Books
 ... we have already seen, is so important an agent in the changes occurring in the soil. In fact, a pure clay, that is to say, a clay unmixed with sand, even though it may contain all the essential constituents of the plant, is for this reason unfertile. Practically, of course, these extreme cases rarely occur; the heaviest clay soils being mixtures of true clay with sand, and the most sandy containing their proportion of clay; but frequently the preponderance of the one over the other is so great, ...
— Elements of Agricultural Chemistry • Thomas Anderson
... to my friend—and when a friend inspires, My silent harp its master's hand requires, Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound; For fortune placed me in unfertile ground, Far from the joys that with my soul agree, From wit, from learning—far, oh far from thee! 80 Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf, Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf; Here hills with ...
— Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett - With Memoirs, Critical Dissertations, and Explanatory Notes • Samuel Johnson, Thomas Parnell, Thomas Gray, and Tobias Smollett
... my friend—and when a friend inspires, My silent harp its master's hand requires, Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound, For fortune placed me in unfertile ground; Far from the joys that with my soul agree, From wit, from learning—far, oh far, from thee! Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf, Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf. Here hills ...
— Notes and Queries, Number 69, February 22, 1851 • Various
... MUCH; for that I grant you. See, Here comes Crispinus, wants to bet with me, And offers odds: "A meeting, if you please: Take we our tablets each, you those, I these: Name place, and time, and umpires: let us try Who can compose the faster, you or I." Thank Heaven, that formed me of unfertile mind, My speech not copious, and my thoughts confined! But you, be like the bellows, if you choose, Still puffing, puffing, till the metal fuse, And vent your windy nothings with a sound That makes the depth they come ...
— The Satires, Epistles, and Art of Poetry • Horace |
