Long conjectured all the maidens,
Orphans asked the wise for counsel. 
Spake a maid to Ilmarinen,
Running to the blacksmith’s furnace: 
“Rise, O artist, from thy slumbers,
Hasten from thy couch unworthy;
Forge from gold the Moon for Northland,
Forge anew the Sun from silver
Cannot live without the moonlight,
Nor without the silver sunshine!”
From his couch arose the artist,
From his couch of stone, the blacksmith,
And began his work of forging,
Forging Sun and Moon for Northland. 
Came the ancient Wainamoinen,
In the doorway sat and lingered,
Spake, these Words to Ilmarinen: 
“Blacksmith, my beloved brother,
Thou the only metal-worker,
Tell me why thy magic hammer
Falls so heavy on thine anvil?”
Spake the youthful Ilmarinen: 
“Moon of gold and Sun of silver,
I am forging for Wainola;
I shall swing them into ether,
Plant them in the starry heavens.” 
Spake the wise, old Wainamoinen: 
“Senseless blacksmith of the ages,
Vainly dost thou swing thy hammer,
Vainly rings thy mighty anvil;
Silver will not gleam as sunshine,
Not of gold is born the moonlight!”
Ilmarinen, little heeding,
Ceases not to ply his hammer,
Sun and Moon the artist forges,
Wings the Moon of Magic upward,
Hurls it to the pine-tree branches;
Does not shine without her master. 
Then the silver Sun he stations
In an elm-tree on the mountain. 
From his forehead drip the sweat-drops,
Perspiration from his fingers,
Through his labors at the anvil
While the Sun and Moon were forging;
But the Sun shone not at morning
From his station in the elm-tree;
And the Moon shone not at evening
From the pine-tree’s topmost branches. 
Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 
“Let the Fates be now consulted,
And the oracles examined;
Only thus may we discover
Where the Sun and Moon lie hidden.” 
Thereupon old Wainamoinen,
Only wise and true magician,
Cut three chips from trunks of alder,
Laid the chips in magic order,
Touched and turned them with his fingers,
Spake these words of master-magic: 
“Of my Maker seek I knowledge,
Ask in hope and faith the answer
From the great magician, Ukko: 
Tongue of alder, tell me truly,
Symbol of the great Creator,
Where the Sun and Moon are sleeping;
For the Moon shines not in season,
Nor appears the Sun at midday,
From their stations in the sky-vault. 
Speak the truth, O magic alder,
Speak not words of man, nor hero,
Hither bring but truthful measures. 
Let us form a sacred compact: 
If thou speakest me a falsehood,
I will hurl thee to Manala,
Let the nether fires consume thee,
That thine evil signs may perish.” 
Thereupon the alder answered,
Spake these words of truthful import: 
“Verily the Sun lies hidden
And the golden Moon is sleeping
In the stone-berg of Pohyola,