The sky was clear—remarkably clear—and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse.

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

Thomas Hardy/Quotes
It is difficult for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs.
A lover without indiscretion is no lover at all.
Time changes everything except something within us which is always surprised by change.
Patience, that blending of moral courage with physical timidity.
The sudden disappointment of a hope leaves a scar which the ultimate fulfillment of that hope never entirely removes.
Some folk want their luck buttered.
A resolution to avoid an evil is seldom framed till the evil is so far advanced as to make avoidance impossible.
A man's silence is wonderful to listen to.
The main object of religion is not to get a man into heaven, but to get heaven into him.
Like the British Constitution, she owes her success in practice to her inconsistencies in principle.

Context from;Far From the Madding Crowd

CHAPTER II

NIGHT -- THE FLOCK -- AN INTERIOR -- ANOTHER INTERIOR

The sky was clear -- remarkably clear -- and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse. The North Star was directly in the wind's eye, and since evening the Bear had swung round it outwardly to the east, till he was now at a right angle with the meridian. A difference of colour in the stars -- oftener read of than seen in England -- was really perceptible here. The sovereign brilliancy of Sirius pierced the eye with a steely glitter, the star called Capella was yellow, Aldebaran and Betelgueux shone with a fiery red.

To persons standing alone on a hill during a clear midnight such as this, the roll of the world eastward is almost a palpable movement. The sensation may be caused by the panoramic glide of the stars past earthly objects, which is perceptible in a few minutes of stillness, or by the better outlook upon space that a hill affords, or by the wind, or by the solitude; but whatever be its origin, the impression of riding along is vivid and abiding. The poetry of motion is a phrase much in use, and to enjoy the epic form of that gratification it is necessary to stand on a hill at a small hour of the night, and, having first expanded with a sense of difference from the mass of civilised mankind, who are dream wrapt and disregardful of all such proceedings at this time, long and quietly watch your stately progress through the stars. After such a nocturnal reconnoitre it is hard to get back to earth, and to believe that the consciousness of such majestic speeding is derived from a tiny human frame.