I keep on committing such sins that even the innocence of beauty feels envious of them.

Here, the poet speaks of 'sins' not as cruel misdeeds, but as the tender, daring transgressions of love—such as stealing glances or surrendering completely to longing. These acts are so free of malice and steeped in sincere passion that even pure innocence looks upon them with envy. It is a lovely paradox where the lover's sweet guilt carries far more grace and purity than cold virtue ever could.