Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drearAnd naked shingles of the world. (27-28)
There's something just totally sad about this moment, don't you think? There's such a depressing feeling of emptiness, of lonely isolation in that night wind. Combine that with the bleak image of the "naked shingles" (that just means the bare rocks) and you've got a real downer of a line. It's all part of the slow downward arc of the speaker's mood across this poem.
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, (33)
Yup, everything is lousy. Think the world is great? It's not. Think you can be happy? You can't. Think there's light in our lives? There isn't. Our speaker is like the grumpy cat of the 19th century. (The ghost of Matthew Arnold is now officially rising from his grave to destroy us for comparing him to a famous internet cat.)