Dust are our frames; and, gilded dust, our pride / Looks only for a moment whole and sound; / Like that long-buried body of the king / Found lying with his urns and ornaments, / Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven, / Slipt into ashes and was found no more.
1864, Alfred Tennyson, “Aylmer’s Field”, in Enoch Arden, &c., London: Edward Moxon & Co., […], page 51