I ask a question, nor know how it must go

I ask a question, nor know how it must go;
Not what love is, nor why, nor when, nor if,
Nor countless other lovers' queries sown
Upon the field of stars in breathless guess.

No.  Although my question comes no wiser
Than poor petitioner to ring-rich lord
Or clueless king surrounded by advisors,
And comes but as words seeking a word,

Still I'll ask the air and hope you hear—
Who, though made but for yourself, give satisfaction
To eyes that quest for beauty, or ears
Alert for that triple-trill perfection.

Still I ask:  Will you, all love, have all me still?
And stilly sit, attentive to your will.