Ode to Ironing (Pablo Neruda)

I was hoping for a bit of humor from this poem by Pablo Neruda. Not a guffaw or anything, but I was expecting something to make me smile (I mean, an ode to ironing??). Instead, this poem is very serious, very calm and instructive.

Or at least, I think so. The poem seems to say - poetry is good. The earth needs work (needs to be ironed out). The daily 'ironing'/the fixing of the earth is what defines poetry. Maybe then this is a sort of ars poetica? It gives a definition of the art, at least.

Any way, a fine poem, but I guess I wanted more lilt. What do you think of it?

Favorite line: "the sea's whiteness has to be ironed out"