Hunt's next poetical work after _Rimini_ was _Foliage_, published in 1818. It is a collection of original poems under the title _Greenwoods_, and of translations under the title _Evergreens_.[87] In the preface Hunt announces the main features to be a love of sociability, of the country, and of the "fine imagination of the Greeks."[88] The first predilection runs the gamut from "sociability" to "domestic interest" and is the most fundamental characteristic of the author and of his writing. In the preface to _One Hundred Romances of Real Life_ he declares sociability to be "the greatest of all interests." It rarely failed to crop out when he was writing even on the gravest and most impersonal of subjects. In his intercourse with strangers, this same "sociability," added to a natural kindliness and sympathy, caused a familiarity of bearing that was often misunderstood. The _Nymphs_, the longest poem of the volume, is founded on Greek mythology and is interesting in connection with Keats's poems on classical subjects. Shelley said that the _Nymphs_ was "truly _poetical_, in the intense and emphatic sense of the word. If 600 miles were not between us, I should say what pity that _glib_ was not omitted, and that the poem is not so faultless as it is beautiful."[89] In general Shelley overestimated Hunt's poetry, though he saw some of its affectations. Shorter pieces were epistles to Byron, Moore, Hazlitt and Lamb--a kind of verse in which Hunt excelled, for his attitude and style were peculiarly adapted to the familiar tone permissible in such writing. Among Hunt's best poems may be counted the sonnets to Shelley, Keats, Haydon, Raphael, and Kosciusko; those entitled the _Grasshopper and the Cricket_, _To the Nile_, _On a Lock of Milton's Hair_, and the series on Hampstead. The suburban charms of Hampstead were very dear to Hunt and he never tired of celebrating them in poetry and in prose. No amount of derision from the _Quarterly_ or _Blackwood's_ stopped him. The general characteristics of _Foliage_ are much the same as those of the _Story of Rimini_. There are poor lines and good ones, never sustained power, and no poetry of a very high order. The subjects themselves are often unpoetical. Hunt obtrudes himself too frequently in a breezy, offhand manner. Byron's opinion of the book was scathing: