Who Are Those Men in Blazers? or (A Statement of Curiosity from a Ten Year Old)

Never made it to Harvard, Princeton, or Yale.
The claws of middle class social structure rendered the brain free of motion.
Walking from community quads through old back yards,
I discovered my mist opening upward around an ivy covered house.
Stuck between the indecisive realm, a collared sky of blue and white
Shaped by the great hands of an ancient scholar still alive in the hearts of the young, old, and in between,
I've thought of those days,
Filled with a precious aura when scholastics were our toast;
The organizations became our butter
And we lived our lives merged with the way of misery, anger, happiness, and understanding.
I didn't take the time seriously after you died,
Passing away to leave us with yearbooks full of questions,
That lead to us reclaiming the holy grail of you.
The Last of Love's Lost Old Ivy Leaguers.