The speaker begins by listening, and what the wind says sounds like nothing more than an epitaph, a message written for the dead. Even the "brass angels" seem to cry rather than comfort. The church that follows is hardly a place of uplift. Calling it "a poor man's box" makes it small and plain, and it holds any visitor to the "dying light" like a heavy weight. Faith here feels more like a burden than a refuge.
In the last lines the speaker walks away from the building and goes down to the water, accompanied only by an echo. The final line, "to say is to know," is a quiet, skeptical turn. Perhaps knowing comes only from speaking and hearing your own voice come back, not from doctrine or church. The mood is cool, solitary and a little mournful, but also steady. The speaker doesn't rage against belief. They simply step outside it and trust what they can say and hear for themselves.