My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;

The worm, the canker, and the grief

Are mine alone!

Lord Byron 1788-1824: On my Thirty-sixth Year.

My way of life

Is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf;

And that which should accompany old age,

As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,

I must not look to have; but in their stead

Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,

Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act v. Sc. 3.

I am all the daughters of my father's house,

And all the brothers too.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 4.

A primrose by a river's brim

A yellow primrose was to him,

And it was nothing more.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Peter Bell. Part i. Stanza 12.

Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands:

Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd

The wild waves whist.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2.

All seems infected that th' infected spy,

As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Essay on Criticism. Part ii. Line 358.